Manic - A Book of Poetry

Hands

Hands

Touch me one more time.

You’re not real otherwise.

Just a figment of my aching heart

sinful lust wanting those hands

on my hips and shoulders.

You intend innocent contact.

I’m much too young for you.

You’re not allowed

to stain me with your touch

leave bruises or marks

butterfly kisses between fingertips

and shoulder blades scrunched to ears

because your touch makes me shiver.

I crave those moments

your closed lipped smile

sparkling eyes looking down at me

(you really are much too tall)

and I with young innocence look away

unsure of how to react and worried

that I’m unworthy or that it’s all a lie.

It is a lie isn’t it?

You want nothing to do with me.

I’m as special as that other girl

the one with the curly locks

and pretty smile and her shoulders

held by your hands.

The same hands I wish would hold me.

And I break and curse and roll my eyes

at my own stupidity and your cackling laugh.

How funny you must find your game

moving the pawn around the board

a band of board game pieces

circled around the supposed king.