Negative Space

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

and heavily,

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.

 

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