Hands of leather brush against this bare skin,

eyes so numb,

stare down at me.

Taught hips push down against mine,

grinding with one low groan from my lips.

She asks me,

“Is this what you want?”

 

Her eyes burn this hole in me,

there is a question just behind her pupil.

Pleading for me to not touch her,

to not use her,

like all the others.

Hot. Sweat. Kisses.

They won’t do anything but bring back memories.

She presses her lips to my neck,

“Do you like it when I kiss you there?”

 

As I laid there I wondered,

what happened to the flame?

that burned so bright in her blue eyes,

it reflected a glow into my own.

Who had the leather hands?

That left those unhealed scars,

which lay hidden under pale skin.

Where was the girl that smiled?

Wanting me to kiss her just one more time,

before I had to go?

 

“Lay still...”

She orders me,

as I shift against the dirty sheets.

Sweat. God is this what they call regret?

My body tells me to touch her.

Hands can’t stay still, as they hold onto her back.

Palms spread and finger nails scraping against her skin,

I wonder who touched her last.

Who left her on that lonely road?

Where the only way to return,

is to lose yourself in every puff from the dro,

the disassociation of ecstasy,

or the prick of the syringe,

as the heroine enters your system.

 

“Touch me, there”

She moves my hand from her back,

and guides it down,

down...down.

The song she always said,

she wanted to give herself away to,

could hardly be heard,

over the pounding of my heart.

I can hear him screaming,

as she moans,

the guitars cry louder,

and he screams out inhabitable words.

I am screaming with these eyes closed tight,

this conscience cannot face her.

 

 

“Touch me here.”

She is broken,

I know that when this is over,

it will mean nothing to her.

A sudden burst of pleasure,

with a stranger.

I bet she can see his face,

the guy with leather hands,

when she opens her eyes looking down at me.

My heart tries to fight it,

knowing I will just be another detour on that lonely road.

 

“Touch me,

Touch me.”

She whispers into my ear,

I let her down.

That pleading question is unheard again,

as these hypocritical hands touch her.

They touch her and take another piece from her,

I wonder how much of her is left,

and how much of the empty shell has taken life’s place.

 

All I wanted to do was love her,

to hold her, and help her forget.

You can’t fix the broken,

with dull and fragile tools.