When someone touches you, for good or bad, they take a part of you with them. the fingertips that graze your wrist lovingly and the prying fingers trying to invade you; they all take something away and leave you with a little less and a little more. the boy who shares my bed, takes a lot of my heart and leaves a lot of himself behind and in my arms. the man who shares the earth, took a lot of my strength and courage leaving only the taste of bile behind. 

vulgar impressions of bruises on a thigh and sickness in my bones. wondering what it was that i shouldn’t have worn this time that granted the invitation. was it the wrong time to leave the house, should i never have been on the 11.03 jubilee line train to stratford? should i have gone to liverpool street even though it was more expensive? slowly, people are stealing any sense of strength that i have left. 

the people who skip in and out, the people who stop by to say hi before disappearing for a fortnight, the people who come in once and leave a lifetime of impressions; everybody who comes in, takes something away from you, but today, someone took more than i had wanted to lose.