Your pale skin glistens in the light --- almost white from the glare of the beaming down sun.

The curve in your spine, barely there yet the first thing I notice,

carries the centuries of neglect he has bestowed upon you. 

His fingers,

Now kind, but not always,

Hold you gently against his lap, careful not to bruise you

Not anymore than necessary, 

Careful not to leave marks

But underneath

Underneath you’re crammed.

You’re pushing against the walls of your flesh prison,

Begging to be released.

But he won’t let you out.

He doesn’t let you because he’s afraid of what will happen

Of you growing too quickly, being of no use to him