by Katie Woods
Without a Single Touch
The sudden chill returns to my bones
It’s a faint sting that seeps through my core
I don a sweater hoping to dull the ache
But no amount of layering can keep me warm
It’s been 13 years since you met me
Only a child behind wide eyes of fear
You changed that timid girl grasping at straws
To a wild woman hating the mirror
I grew up too fast beneath your hand
Though at the time I wanted it that way
Children don’t know what’s best for them
Or have the instinct to keep themselves safe
Blind trust was set at your feet
And soon infatuation came to follow
You morphed these tender things into a knife
To carve through my chest until it was hollow
It was natural for me to reach for you
As a child of already rampant abuse
But the neglect of my person and feelings
Made me that much easier to seduce
I don’t know which of us loved the other first
Honestly it doesn’t matter all that much
Because only one of us was an adult
And children can break without a single touch
Small Hours of Night
It usually happens in the small hours of night My
rail resolve thins and I lose the mental fight
Shrouded in darkness, not unlike my weathered
mind I try to become smaller and harder to find I
cower in the corner of the steam-filled shower My
tight chest won’t loosen, even after an hour I open
my mouth to scream but I’m silent again I think I
might instead shake right out of my skin My
shallow breath is quick, my dazed vision is blurred
Memory of your vile touch returns with your
words My aching abdomen clenches, I want to be
sick I need you removed from the pit of my
stomach
I curl into a ball on the couch or in my bed
Desperate for safety, I pull covers over my
head My tears have stained all the pillows
that I own When the sun rises, I can’t help
but feel alone
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