I will only ever stain myself if I do not let anyone touch me.

I will never spread like cold fire through an unsuspecting mouth again,

The taste of me a too ripe strawberry,

Or honey still hot and straight from the pot.

How gentle is my tongue, how sharp are my teeth;

Meaner still when it is my name that they are tasting.

Obsession, passion – love.

What a fine line it is that us fragile ghosts walk;

Us too gentle, made soft by such harsh hands.

Oh, the bruises that they have already left behind –

And the bruises that they will leave, inevitable too.

Worse still are the hands that rest, all marble love

Against the hip;

The kind of hands that, when they are touching you,

Make you believe that you could almost belong there against them.

The kind of hands that touch you once or twice,

Two dozen times and then never again -

And now you will spend the rest of your life waiting for them to walk back in,

Wishing that they had never left.

Cheeks stained with shame, a shellac crack;

How it hurts each time that I smile.