'Don't touch me.'
She was scared that he would feel the invisible scars that painted her skin like some sick war paint she never wanted. Like he would know they were there just by running his hand up her side.
He would know.
That screwed her up inside more than anything else.
He. Would. Know.
It was bad enough that she could still see the handprints, the open wounds. Things he would never know if he just didn't touch.
She had scars that had faded into nothing, but somehow she wore them. Not like a medal with pride, not like a survivor.
No.
More like a coward, someone who flinched every time someone said 'I love you'.
It made her cry more times than she could count; made her wish that she could die. But cowards don't die.
They run.
Just like she was running from him by saying,
'Don't touch me.'
YOU ARE READING
Poems From My Mostly Dark Places
PoetryThis is just a collection of things I jot down while I'm in a dark place. Not all of them will be dark, but most will be. That's generally when I'm creating at my best. A lot of them won't be very long either, I tend to get stuff out in just a few w...
