I was scared to fuck.
You would see the scars on my hips.
unprecedented intimacy against our lack of words
you would pry them open with crescent-moon fingers,
your surgery gentle and unprompted
teenage doubt drawn in your hand
and my ghost body turned from terror:
“Is it love if you know my atrocities?”
“Is it love if I hide in you?”
“Is it love if I need you?”
“Is it love if I want love in return?”
“Is it love if I’m inconvenient?”
Then:
you looked at me with gentle want
and I knew you never saw me enough to notice
those were questions you would never ask
my skin had never been real enough to frighten you
and the child inside me
only ever terrorized the child inside you.
Visual Interpretation
