Wounds Shaped Like Hands

by William Rowden

His hands
were on me,

and that leaves marks,
leaves wounds.

Now I
am made of them,

these
black freckles, these

burn marks,
handprints.

Plucked,
taken.

Ripped
from the root––

I built no calluses.
Instead, I hid

underground,
gliding veils

over myself,
this hoodie, these gloves.

So cloaked,
I can’t be seen

tending,
tending to myself.

My plump, pink
skin––

So bare
that it’s begging:

Touch me,
touch me,

someone,
but no one

like him,
no

claymation hands,
and no pottery slip.

I escaped,
narrowly,

to this cave,
to this echo,

and lingered there
in the black.

and silence
becomes a cloth

stitched over
my open mouth,

and a voice
from the belly

of this cave
groans

and says,
“You cannot

be hurt
if you cannot

be heard,”
so I follow it

into the depths​.

---

William Rowden is an aspiring writer from Texas. When not drafting poems, he plays guitar and listens to movie soundtracks.