Your touch disgusts me.

As your gentle hand runs over the raised skin on mine, it reminds me of the poison you call love.

Every rustle could disturb you, every thing out of place in a placeless home could set you of, every success was a failure and every mistake a disaster;

your eyes lost their luster, your face turned sour and your sweet voice would turn into a nightmarish howl.

Your teeth would grind as you raised your palm and before each blow drops of your poison would echo through the walls.

As my little body was contaminated with the colors of your love, my mind became a product of the poison you spat.

Love became violence and I became a work of art as your poison spread through my mind.

I replaced your blues with my reds and whites in the name of self-love.

Mirrors became daunting when the only reflection I could see was the one your eyes projected, the reflection of yet another misplaced thing of your dollhouse fantasy; yet another failure, yet another disastrous creation.

As you became the last prisoner of the shackles of your poison, your carefully constructed fantasy began to crumble and crack.

As you watched the walls fall, the strange silence indicated that you were now alone in the ruins of an empty nest, longing for our presence, our imperfection, our brokenness, our noise.

Your touch disgusts me.