Men With Beautiful Hands Will Turn You Into a Stranger


"She is far too naive. She converses too
often with the sky, and eventually,
she will crumble."
I am shaking the terror off my skin
and I am digging up the words that have
been burrowed in the pit of my stomach.
“If I saw her on the street,
I would no longer recognize her.”
I am composed of obsidian,
and everyone knows fire cannot
kill a dragon. I refuse to crumble,
because I already have. In silence
I endured, and in silence, I trembled.
I will no longer be a projection of a
lover’s demands. I will no longer be
an extension of a man I have to love less
and less. I am re-training my vocal chords,
and this time, there will be no walking away
when I speak up.
I am shifting into tectonic plates
and destroying the fault lines that
make up your veins.
“When I hit you,
I swear I still love you.
It’ll feel better if you bite down.”
But I am sick of gnashing my teeth
and groping for hands that only touch me
when clenched into fists.
“She is a lesson in callousing.
She is a lesson in erosion and
when I look at her, I understand how
craters are created by years of
incessant rushing water.”
In the night, I swim in your bloodstream
and search for the things that make you weak.
I will no longer be gentle.
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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