Parts

I couldn't stop staring at your hands

as you sat beside me at the desk

long fingers, with long nails

that would tear the flesh on my back

in the hot sticky summer to come

and your skin was so many colours

on it the years etched like a patch-work quilt

yellow, and grey turning to flushed red

as my hands brushed yours 

deliberately, pointing out a word

close up, alone, no-one to distract.

you were more beautifully repulsive than before, 

drowning in those piercing ice-blue eyes

that bore through, as if searching for something

well I’ll tell you now it was always yours

apologized for my apostrophes

always loved a perfectionist

like the last one, reminded me of my flaws

yet still untasted parts remain

pages that are yet to be stained

I want to be perfect, so pure 

and restrained, so unlike you

that you are driven mad, 

like the animal you are

and hurt me

    just so I can feel

        alive

my white teeth painfully clashed

with your smoke-stained ones

which would later bite and bruise

another reminder I chose to ignore

already examining other parts of you

debated intricacies of stockholm syndrome

when really it was me who you abused

let yourself live inside me like a host

and in the night saw you in my mirror

bitter tears did no good, you were busy living

all the parts add up, all the pieces fit

you understand what I need and so I to you

yet how can these flimsy props be discarded?

my artifice of intelligence already looks weak

without you stating the truth to me

I want to prove I’m more than a silly little girl

that I’m worthy enough of love

worthy enough to be understood

for more than just one night

Reviews

[An owl on the moon]

Your words bring alive the story of wanting love, desiring respect, and finding life more than just fragments of a scattered self. This is written so well, with just enough vivid expression and depth of emotion.