I learned a valuable lesson in tactility. That the people you let touch you stay long after they leave.
How Ashanti Foolish of me, to think this frame couldn’t house those memories. That this body couldn’t become a broken home after a broken boy tracked soot throughout its corridors.
And sunken beneath its floorboards
lie your undoing.
the remnants beneath the skin or the surface, and underneath where the hurt is. There’s this need to be touched, a longing to be cut, by a dagger or a mans hands that seem to be proficient in drawing blood.
Settled for whatever magic touch you could get, and now you’re left with the track record of boys, who’ve left track-marks on your skin; around your wrists and your hips, and the nape of your neck where they’ve kissed and layed waste
to everything holy that lied in your epidermal layer.
And I know, I know in the beginning it all seemed so topical
Until you realized pandoras box was only 10 degrees below, waist deep and now you can’t even remember what you touched the lock for.
Or why you were so desperate, or how you could have possibly nested or nurtured a thirst so unquenchable.
And even after all the wreckage left behind that is you.
You still long to be set ablaze, scorched.
I learned a valuable lesson in tactility.
That there’s a chance the people you let stay the night will make a mess before they go.
They will leave behind ghosts… Haunting the parts of you that were never allowed visitors.
So that your home is shelter to phantom emotions, ghoulish soundtracks and limbs reaching hearts beating and heavy breathing, anxiety.
Wondering if you’ll ever be able to entertain guests again… Debating if you even should.
I learned a valuable lesson in tactility, that if you’re not careful you’ll be left with a lack of feeling, numb.
And your once warm home will lodge an indifference that’ll read “Dilapidated” on it’s doormat.
Windowpanes frosted over with jadedness
and you will be just that.
A broken home due to broken visitors you shouldn’t have invited in at all..