tips
--
a poem
when i close my eyes
i am still your hands.
still the pleasure found
only at the tips of
your fingers.
you gave them to me.
not as a gift but as
a tribute to our last meal.
said i was finally deserving
of some pleasure after so
many years of pain.
that was your way
of saying you would
not fill the space
required to love me.
so i let you dip
your fingers in me.
let you erase the scripture
of my skin and replace them
with your cave drawings.
let you rename me
flower and unseed my being.
and just like to ink to milk
you sullied me in the worst way.
i didn’t realize the damage until later.
it took me years to recover the
pieces of me i let you
scatter across my
bedroom floor.
your spirit was so
minute it hardly
filled my glass
when i returned.
it didn’t pain me
to empty you
because this
was your pleasure
after so many years of pain
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