you touch me

You touch me

    –What?
You lay your hands on my body
    –No.

My body is vulnerable
Weak, open
Too open

My body is sexual
And I can't

Stop it

My body is an object
To be used
By the hands laid on it

It is not safe

    –But you are safe.

Your hands, my God

    –They are safe.

Your hands are gentle

Healing

Not intrusive

Your hands,

They hold me

They are only good intentions

You know me. My body. Its scars. Its openness, vulnerability, beauty, sexuality, physicality, spirituality, trauma, insecurity, its comforts and discomforts. You know the darkness, the brokenness, bruises beneath the surface. 

    –Ow, it's still sore there. 

You know. You know the dirt beneath my nails.

    –Is it dirt? I don't remember.

You know the lies that have shaded my eyes, sealed my lips shut.

You know this body. You formed this body of death. You loved this body of death, this house to a soul. You died to redeem it. You laid your hands on me in the grave. I am not clean. I am dirty and it's ugly here and I don't know how to talk about it. You came to me in the dark when I was weak, defensive. I did not know who you were. 

I only knew gentle hands that didn't rip me open, did not tear me down. You do not ask where it hurts. You know all my bruises.

You wore my death in your own body on a tree in your flesh. It rose up in your throat from your lungs, stealing your breath, suffocating you. Yes– you know my shame. You drank it whole. You stole it away from me.

My body is flesh and bones and dust and divine touch

And you lay your hands on this dirt

And make me come alive in your arms

You take me into your house of healing and you touch everywhere it hurts

And I am not afraid

You take the hurt over and over 

I did not know you were taking it 

yourself in through your fingertips 

on my skin

You trade me 

Life for death

Life for death

Life for death

Until it's all that's left

In this body of death