hands
the hands,
they never lie.
the hands are my favorite.
i love them
because i do fear them.
you can touch
but they cannot.
i would melt
into a securely
vulnerable state
as you caress;
yet ignite in fury,
if they dared
lay a finger
on the blanket
to my soul.
the very atrocities
a man's hands can do
frighten me.
yet somehow,
i wonder in lust
what yours can do to me.
the hands which i fear,
if used for violating,
could very well be used
for exploring
and making me warm;
if i so please it.
and that flusters me.
it leaves me mad
in a felicitous way.
that is frustration:
being in dire need
of your touch.
===
by the hands of man
i know
if i am hated
or if i am loved.
