I'd like to swirl gritty water around my mouth
to rinse and pick away the taste and feel
of your tongue and saliva,
then spit it out and pretend it never happened.

If I could I'd rub my skin with sandpaper, till my blood,
sweat and skin would be mixed together on the ground,
all essence of your fingers tickling and groping
my body and curves gone to the crows who feed off of the dead,
on the street side.

Then I would dive,
down into the oceans eyes,
to feel the sting of the salt as it cleansed my cuts
and wounds.

I'd probably struggle to free myself
of the pain at first
but eventually I'd go numb – again.
Just like how you found me,
before your hands scared away what little innocents and self-worth
I had left.