The firs time a woman touched me,

I forgot I had been broken.

Her hands did not take—

they asked.

And when I said yes,

she didn’t rush in

like a man breaking down a door—

she waited,

like she knew my body was a house

with history.

Her mouth whispered apologies

for every time I had been taken

instead of loved.

And her fingers were patient enough

to let me bloom

in my own time.