You had offered me a change of clothes,

It was nothing,

 

Nothing but acknowledgement that I would be here longer than a person usually stays in a set of clothes. 

 

Your hands had been on me some hundreds of times. 

We had kissed, we’d had sex, we had shared many years. 

You made me believe I was loved.

 

You made me believe, 

under all the layers of horror in my gaze, 

that you still saw  a soul inside that didn’t make you sick. 

You were evidence, that I—though so vile and so tainted, 

—held tangible capacity for love. 

 

But you handed me clothes, 

this time, as a stranger. 

The hands that had loved me were terribly cold. 

 

You’re the first person I told. 

You stared blankly at my face.

 ‘I think I’m scared to touch you.’ 

I prayed to god you would. 

 

You handed me clothes,

After two years of dragging my slow death out slower.

I felt like my brain was dissolving..

My love, did you do it to spite me?

 

You handed me clothes, 

And your hands felt like r-pe.