Saturday, 19 April 2014

Poetry: Held

Trigger warning: references to sexual assault

The first time you met me,
I was a cipher,
A blank canvas for you to
Paint a story onto.
I wanted you to.

The first time you held me,
The world stood still
And all that mattered
Was the fan of your bangs
Tickling my neck.

The first time you kissed me,
You tasted like hummus.
I recall that I wondered,
As the moon shone on the river,
If first kisses were always so toothy.

The first time you held my hand,
I had to earn it,
Had to look both ways,
Had to stand just close enough
To weave your fingers through mine.

The first time you told them,
My eyes married the ground,
My tongue remained tied,
Just as you asked them to,
And I earned a night of peace.

The first time you raped me,
It sounded much less like no
And more like a schoolgirl
Who was liked for her jump rope.
I’d learned to earn things.

The first time I hated you
Was the day that I told you
I didn’t like skipping with you.
I know you heard me say
That my feet were tired.

The last time I saw you,
You were tall and proud,
Face a new shade of dress-up,
Hand a new shade of held,
And I wept for her.

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