Her words are like thorns,
knife wounds in my already aching skin.
The blade grinding against my ribs
reaching for my heart again.
Her words were teeth,
eating me alive.
And her touch, oh, her touch...
I don't even remember it.
But I do, when I was little
and I'd hold her hand in the supermarket
so as not to get lost.
Every one in a while, I wonder.
Would maybe your life be easier
if I had gotten lost?
Would you think of me in a fonder light,
if I had not had that chance to grow up
into the monster I so desperately wish not to be?
She'd put a band-aid on my knee,
grab me out of the way of a passing car,
rock me in her mother's rocking chair.
Her touch was like sunlight,
baby's breath, grass in the spring.
Now, I am lucky to get a passing brush
of skin on skin, her hand on mine.
She is disgusted by my scars,
those both visible and invisible.
No, she would not bring herself to hit me,
of course not,
but nor will she bring herself to touch me.
By now, I do not expect her touch
I do not long for it
(or so I'd like to make myself believe)
if she did reach out to me
I would probably push her away.
But oh,
oh, how I would love for her to try.