It’s too late
to erase
your hostile hands,

Hands, like insects
that went where they pleased,
Destroyed my foundations
and spread their disease,

Hands,
Like cigarette plumes
that penetrate my insides –
Smoke, like hands.
Lungs, like thighs.

If I had been older,
I might have been bolder,
and known how to tell you to
Stop.

But it’s too late
to erase
your hostile hands.

I can still feel them
Making their demands.