It

Cold, sandpaper hands
shook with fright.
Nothing inviting ‘bout your touch. –
Harsh breath – moistening skin.
Praying that it drown me.


Before October – not to remember.
Moments of pleasure split me two –
now lost…
searching for the me, before you.
Only to find me that came after.


Do you ever think of me?
Body squirming?
The dark?
Squirms into grinds –
a way to survive.
It is what it is…
but it wasn’t kind.
It made me feel little.
It made me feel robbed.


It’s a dark, damp house -
coldest day of winter.
Always wanting to leave -
yet, paralyzed.
Instead, I watch my breath –
breathing in, what you breathe out.
Losing breath reminds our lungs
the love they have for air.
Yet, what I lost, is same was breathing,
b’fore I found was there.




It’s a small-hand, dead of night –
fingers too small for pain.
It’s a stained mirror,
scrubbing can’t take it away.
I cover it up, yet still know it’s there.
I still see you.
Have you ever felt such hollow?
I heard the echoes of my soul
ev’ry time you knocked.
Tasted all your sadness –
agreed to never talk.


Forever there’s a home in me –
my dark, cold bed.
I always tuck you in at night -
I keep you cold and damp.
May a fist always find you
seeking hands before.
slowly you will die then,
breathing breath no more.