poetry.

for once your hands don't remind me of his

i've been ruined.

when i was a child i was ruined by a pair of hands, over and over, and every hand to touch me since then has felt like his. my skin crawls when i am touched, even though i crave skin on my skin so much it hurts.

but not yours.

last night we lay in bed and you slipped your hands under the back of my shirt and touched my skin, your fingers stuttering over my ribs and your palms flattened against my shoulder blade and ran down my waist. i squirmed a bit and you withdrew your hands so fast i was almost offended, but i laughed and told you i'm just ticklish. it's true, and i marveled at how much i loved it when you touched me like that. so gentle and innocent. the only crime you committed was wanting to love me.

i want to touch you like this too but i'm scared. so i leave my hands in your long brunette hair and stroke your face with my eyes closed, and i know ever hill and valley and stream in your face as i were one of the gods who put them there.

your hands come to a rest at my waist and i guess you hear me thinking more! because you laugh and say softly "is this alright, little miss touched-starved?" and all I can do is laugh and say yes.

my shirt comes off and you try and work out the ever-present knots in my shoulders, and i sigh in relief.  it's dark in your room, but somehow you know exactly where to put your hands, like you've spent your life preparing for the day when I let you touch me.

i'm still a little insecure about my body, but they way you run your hands over me doesn't make me feel like i have something to hide. you kiss me, your hands sliding down my sides and settling at my hips and i kiss you harder and for once in my wretched life, your hands are yours, and not his.

god what a wonderful feeling. please do it again.