Their hands were cold rivers,

flooding the boundaries of my skin,

wandering places they did not belong,

places I didn’t invite them in.

They were thunder—

loud, insistent, relentless,

drowning the trembling whispers

of a “no” I was too scared to shout.

Each touch was a theft,

a piece of me stolen,

tucked into their pockets,

silenced by shame.

The actions of their hands spoke louder than my voice,

silencing me with their certainty,

while my heart and body begged

for an escape from their weight.

But silence isn’t consent—

it’s survival.

A quiet plea to the universe

to make it stop.

Their hands once held my silence,

but they do not hold me now.

Every word I speak

is a door I pry open,

a window I smash

to let the light in.

And though their hands remain

a dark memory I can’t erase,

they will never again 

hold my voice.