the trauma never kissed me.
“beautiful lips,” they’ve said, and some have dragged bold fingers down my face to lead to leaning in and asked “why won’t you let me kiss you”
i almost whispered secrets in their ear
but knew they shouldn’t know:
(there is a part of me
the trauma didn’t touch
i’ve given some so little and so much
but with my lips my voice is there)—
and the trauma cannot kiss me.
tagged as: poetry. or prosetry not sure. history stitches.