I wish I could go back.

He knows it's not my fault.
But every time he thinks of touching me I'm reminded
of the carless hands I've encountered,
ones not so pure from love;
ones laced with malice and greed.

I couldn't bear to feel their grip again,
to watch the fruit die on the cherry tree.
I try not to think of how unfair I've been to those who come after,
to myself.
I wish I hadn't been so subjugated by an allusion of love.
I wish he had stopped when I told him to.

But I'm tearing apart the flesh on my fingers trying to
push the clocks hands back,
and I cannot undo what
has undone me.

Now my hands are stained red, and
I'm desperately trying to tell him it means nothing at all.
He holds me, unlike arms I've known before,
he is true.
But I know this will not be easy.
Although my reproach paints my past to stand in vain,
I cannot help but imagine the hell I could've saved myself.

I could've saved myself. I wish I could go back.