my skin cells die
every twenty-seven days,
but I still can’t shed
the feeling of your hands.
i’m five or six
and hell is a dog cage,
behind the old storage shed,
with hay on the floor.
i’m fourteen
and hell is a bathroom,
near the stairwell down the hall,
with broken metal doors.
my body is new,
but it is no longer my own;
skin rubbed raw
as I try to wash you away.
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