Living in Boxes

I have seen your face

a thousand times in backgrounds of

my photos with him; them photos i now hide in secret boxes and

bury beneath forgotten clothes.

I never knew you had

such a smile, for I never

took pictures with you - maybe I should start,

for you seem to have so many

of mine.

I know you from somewhere special,

it's a place I go to when I dream of

feeling like nothing went wrong,

but I never really dared to dream again after

my heart tore into pretty little pieces that

fell into your hands, somehow; now.

And I don't really remember how to

take someone's hand,

but if you promise the patience,

you could teach me.

You touch me with an odd familiarity. Well,

why not, you know my flaws.

Every trace of your fingertip means so much more

than when I

absentmindedly play with your hair only to

pull back for I remember

not to open up

for I am scared - to be quite frank.

He had hurt me in ways that I 

don't want you to, please. I know I ask 

a lot, but

he had given me too little.

I sometimes wish to be

those wrapping papers of

birthday gifts

that never end up in bins.

Can you promise to unwrap me

delicately or will you just

rip me open and throw me away

like he did?