I used to long to hold a boy's hand
But
My dad had different ideas.
He squeezed my hands
Until his fingernails carved little
Cuts in mine
Shapes of little moons
They scar my hand
The moons permanently
Carved into the skin-
The body
That he thought was his.
I longed for my hand to be
Mine again
I fought him and tried to escape his
Tight, controlling grasp
I kicked and screamed and sobbed
Until he just
Let
Go.
Now I don't hold any boy's hand.
I don't want to.
The person that holds my hand
Hold me with gentleness,
Holds me with care,
Holds me with sweetness,
Holds me with passion
Holds me without pain
Or guilt or misery
Now I don't hold a boy's hand
But a girl's
She sees my tiny little
Moon scars
And pulls me even closer,
Embracing me for all that I am,
The sun and the moon.
YOU ARE READING
My Voice Through Poetry
PoetryDepressed + gay = poetry 🤯 ⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING: including (but not limited to) self-harm, abuse, mental hospitals, eating disorders, and suicide.
