And every time you talk about holding hands,
only one hand clings to mine —
the one I’ve been trying to forget,
whispering,
It wasn’t my fault.
But I still scrub my skin
to redness anyway,
trying to erase the memory.
Dressing up for someone
feels useless to me,
because I was only nine
the last time I wore a skirt —
and it reminded me
of everything
I wanted to forget.
Even “hug” sounds
a bit too creepy now,
because the last one I remember
was from my molester
Only.