I used to want to be so small
that I’d slip like sand
through the hands
of every boy that ever tried to touch me.
To fill as little of their space
as I can,
space that belongs to a man.
If no one can catch me no one can own me.
If I could just become the air,
he’d breathe me in
feel me on his skin,
a coldness no one gets to call frigid.
To every new cell that I grow
clings a fear
to get too near
to you, in case one of them shows what he did.
The desire to shrink has not left.
It lays dormantly
a weight that I bring with me into bed.
But as your hand burns my skin
I know this
is what matter is,
negative space will never feel your kiss, so I exist.