Tongue like a spike in my own mouth
drawing blood with words
the taste of cooper coins
seep through clenched teeth.
I’m so used to feeling empty that
I’m not sure I was every anything more
She always told me to love with
everything but everything’s never
I’m always left
with deep wounds left to be stitched
in the comfort of my own solitude
I honour each wound by
their hands by creating my own
so I’m not sure which one was yours
I thought it would be the deepest
but they all look the same to me now
you’re all the fucking same to me now
I now know what it’s like to bite tongues that aren’t my own
Leaving fresh wounds,
Tasting their blood
Is better than my own
I clung to her clothes yet when she came there’d never be anyone home
I knew what it was like,
Maybe that’s why
I thought I deserved to feel what they did
To feel chased with no intention of slowing down
The feeling of freedom,
While passing my hand through her hair
I was never truly there
But it was nice to feel wanted without wanting
I let him get close, kept him near
In case I stumbled too far I wanted someone to lend an ear
This time it was me who didn’t say hi,
I didn’t say bye either
I just watched as she tried to reach through my barriers
This was something I watched you do and I was envious of the inaccessibility
Now I’m inaccessible
I’m not sure if this is what I wanted
But in the end, it’s better than being forgotten
i. My mothers hands never had a soft land on the skin across my cheek. Always rough side, knuckle bared swipe leaving me with the realization I could never do right. Could always do better, be better, be nothing like anything. Just say what she thought and do as she does and I could walk away with less bruises this time.
ii. That’s why when his rough hands took fistfuls of hair I grit my teeth, I did not swear. He always said, I could be like her. He wanted me to be like her. Just do as he says, and say what he needs and I would leave with less cuts on my knees.
iii. Yet her.. her hands seemed soft and safe, unlike past skin – against mine did not chafe. Though soft hands proved strong grips, with nails like claws – skin rips. She always said it was my fault. So I do as she says, repeat words that pass her lips in hopes that maybe this time she’ll loosen grips.
I learned to trust no hands, not even my own. As the most damage dealt was done alone.
She had spoken with silken words, and her tongue could spin thread better than any seamstress. With lips as delicate as rose petals, I watched them… wondering what roses taste like.
Though roses have thorns, and with thread comes needles. It was inevitable that eventually I would draw blood through her hands. It was unexpected that I would impale myself on such beauty, as to where I was afraid that my blood would taint the silk or wilt her roses.
But it was my hands that drew blood, she was never close enough to be near when it drips – you cannot ruin what lays not within your grips.