Tuesday, 18 May 2010


He skimmed and slipped over
Your skin, which he wished
Was his to touch; he stitched
His hand to yours and gripped

So hard you felt your bones,
Crush, curdle, you plead, don't let go
But he did, he tore away
Two weaved hands, they bled that day

Raw, afraid, with dread you felt
Your way through the darkness in which you dwelt
The hand it scarred, it left its marks
On the walls you scraped, bled, dried and marred

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