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.
-
Author:
Meera Mere (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 30th, 2025 07:53
- Category: Sad
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Meera Mere
Offline)
Comments2
A poem that holds a creepy and haunting feel with a touch of post traumatic stress. Sad
Such an emotive poem Meera, I do sincerely hope that your life will become good again.
Andy
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