I was sixteen when my mouth
Was forced open
With an unfamiliar tongue, dripping of lust;
Chapped lips,
Violently brushing against mine…

Hands.
Hands.
Hands.

I belched enough saliva,
As I watched my guilt trickle down the drain
To accumulate
In a cesspool
Of blood, tears and similar tales.

Buses, trams, metros…
Invisible hands.
Ghost hands.
Under my skirt.
On my breasts.
Around my hips.
Everyone. Wants. It.
A bit of it.
A lot of it.
ALL of it, if they could.
Devouring,
With eyes and leers and
Unsolicited hands up my thighs…

What do you even do with scars
That no make-up can hide?
I poured them
In cologne bottles
To put it away in a cool, dry place
At the back of my mind.

And we are urban fireflies
In a concrete jungle
With several, greedy hands,
Lusting to taste our light.

17 October 2017

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