it was something,
anyway,
a stray thought or a
foolish idea,
a blind idea that
being touched
would be enough to
save you,
that being held would
make me human
it was knowledge,
but it wasn’t truth
it was your father’s
hands in all of
your dreams,
hitting or grabbing or
gently caressing,
and there were never
enough windows
when you were awake
there was never enough
sunlight,
and the locks on every
door
were broken
my words were
like sawdust in my mouth,
were like shit in
yours, but i
couldn’t stop talking
couldn’t stop equating
the
act of fucking
with the idea of
caring
wanted you, yes, but
only if you were
someone else
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