I HAVE A STORY BUT NO ONE TO TELL IT TO
Everywhere your fingers have been,
I’ve scrubbed myself ten times over.
As if my body could forget.
Every few days,
my skin is new but
bones remember, baby, and mine are
moulded to the shape of your hands.
Ah, those hands.
What i would give for them to never touch me again.
What i would give for them to be cold and dead and gone.
By Venetta Octavia
Venetta Octavia is a poet from Singapore who spends far too much time eating ice cream and lying down with her dogs. Her work has been previously published in Wildness magazine and her debut collection of poetry is being published by Platypus Press. You can find more of her work at http://venettaoctavia.tumblr.com/