It’s too late
to erase
your hostile hands,
Hands, like insects
that went where they pleased,
Destroyed my foundations
and spread their disease,
Hands,
Like cigarette plumes
that penetrate my insides –
Smoke, like hands.
Lungs, like thighs.
If I had been older,
I might have been bolder,
and known how to tell you to
Stop.
But it’s too late
to erase
your hostile hands.
I can still feel them
Making their demands.
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