Hands

It starts like nothing—

like remembering a smell,

like static.

And then it’s his hands again.

His hand on my cheek—

gentle, but it burns now.

I can still feel it,

like the skin remembers what I tried to forget.

His hand on my throat—

not choking, just there,

but my lungs don’t care about the difference.

They tighten anyway,

like the air owes me an apology.

His hand on my waist—

the way I froze,

the way I didn’t say no loud enough,

the way my body betrayed me by staying still.

And it all hits at once—

the sound of my heartbeat

too close to my ears,

my breath climbing the walls of my chest.

My mind plays it back in flashes—

hands,

pressure,

heat,

shame.

I tell myself it’s over.

It’s not.

It never is.

It lives under my ribs,

in the muscles that lock up when someone touches me wrong,

in the dreams that replay the same scene

until I wake up shaking.

I hate that I can still feel him.

I hate that my body remembers

what I’ve tried to bury.

And I hate that every time I think I’m okay—

one small thing

brings it all back,

and it hits,

and it hurts,

and it’s still here.