Finished Poem + Word Count: 330
Trigger Warnings: reference of bombs used as a metaphor for PTSD symptoms, implied intimacy and issues relating to that
Written by: Del Rey Jean
Extra notes: I had written this around the time I had an experience where I wanted to get intimate with a friend who could have been more – I couldn’t continue, I was having troubles with the trauma in my past causing me to feel uncomfortable with continuing. I had to process the experience somehow, so this came out.
Remember, den readers, you matter and your body belongs to you. You do not owe anyone anything. Stay strong, lovelies.
Don’t touch me
until you know.
You need to know,
need to be prepared,
need to be trained,
in the art
of diffusing a bomb,
before you can touch me.
I am not ready
to kill another connection
just because lust is loud
and love pretends
to be accepting
of anything.
I am not ready
for you to look at me
with pity.
I am not ready
for you to see
the scars on my skin,
and the stains
in my mind.
Don’t touch me.
You don’t want to be responsible
for the smeared ink
that doesn’t wash off.
Don’t touch me.
You don’t know
what you’re getting into.
And when you see,
when the fingerprints aren’t just
something I tell you I feel,
but they’re real,
when you see
how broken I really am
beneath your hands,
you’ll run.
I know you will.
They always do.
Don’t touch me.
You don’t want me.
You think that you do
because I’m pretty,
because you like my smile,
my laugh,
my pale skin,
my small grey eyes,
my wild colored hair,
you want me
because you see the surface
of a pretty girl.
But underneath,
when you strip me down,
you dig deeper,
you touch me,
and I shake,
and I cry,
and I can’t satisfy,
and then you’ll be responsible
for the tears I scream into the earth,
when you flinch,
when you recoil,
when you run.
Don’t touch me.
If you can’t stop
at a moment’s notice
when the storm hums to life
and tears through me
and I can’t keep going.
Don’t touch me
if you can’t handle
the pause
the hesitation
the step back
the “not this time, I can’t do this.”
Don’t touch me.
I am tiny.
Frail.
Shattered.
Barely held together
by brittle glue
and bits of old string.
Unworthy.
I am broken.
My body glitches
with every caress
and I can’t take it anymore.
Just don’t touch me.
I’m tired of what comes next.