*loolaville _poetry    



My Hands

It wasn't your words
or my words
or even the villain's words
that brought
my knees to my chest
or lowered my forehead
and eyelids wet.
It was the churning
and burning of no words;
the sickly silence
of his eyes
seeing freely
with glances sometimes stealing
my bare skin
off my body
while hot water
pelted my back.
It was the unexpected
and disconnected absence
of any sort of soul in his chest
as his hands
encricled my wrists
and forced them to the hell
set aside just for my hands.
My hands,
that remain with me now
but in this moment
have forgotten how
to reach out
and touch the safety
of yours.
  


   
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