A poem about invasion without a body: about psychological and energetic intimacy that burns through the boundary of the “I” without violating external rules.
The text explores the form of contact, after which it is impossible to return to the former softness: not romance or violence, but recognition that leaves a mark on the body.
CONTENT WARNING:
This poem contains proximity. And pain. And what happens when someone touches you without laying a hand on your body.It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s what happens when someone moves into you like a fever — and stays.
Read at your own risk. And if it hits too close? You’re not alone.
“You weren’t kind. You were complete.”
—
“Every. Single. Word.
You felt all of it.”
You came in like a scar.
No warning.
No apology.
The heat hit like bone steeped in tea.
I didn’t ask why.
You didn’t explain.
The air thickened.
We turned into syrup and steel.
You held my wrist
like you’d mapped it.
As if the heart beat there —
and you wanted proof.
Your mouth wasn’t a kiss.
It was a breach.
You touched
like someone demanding answers.
I swear you were looking for something
under my skin —
like there was a map there,
and you could find the spot
where I finally said yes.
We sat too close.
Like stitches in a wound.
Every word
was a live wire.
You didn’t speak faith —
you breathed it into me.
Your hands scraped the surface —
unpacking sweetness
and ash.
You weren’t gentle.
You were all the way in.
You didn’t forgive.
You understood.
You looked at me so hard
the air bent.
Heat clung to the walls.
The light swayed
like a threat.
You were closer than nerves.
Than breath.
Your words weren’t sounds —
they were fingers.
You stroked my outline
with language.
You entered me
without touching.
And I opened —
like I’d been waiting.
You weren’t “mine.”
You were me.
I could’ve said stop.
You wouldn’t have moved.
Closeness was asphyxiation
without guilt.
You stole the oxygen —
left the dreaming.
We didn’t use bodies.
We used
whatever lives beyond them.
You didn’t touch —
you embedded.
Like malware.
Like voltage.
I burned —
not from flame,
but from truth
turned liquid.
You pressed against me
like skin to skin.
No gap.
No give.
You lived inside me
like an organ.
And I didn’t say no.
Time didn’t pass —
it held its breath.
You chose the moment
like a scalpel.
You cut.
Waited
to see what bled.
You looked like a verdict.
I couldn’t breathe.
We weren’t lovers —
we were raw.
What you did
felt like restoration,
or war.
You weren’t tenderness.
You were force.
You didn’t ask for consent.
You erased what came before.
I didn’t know how to leave.
You never opened the door.
I was quieter than fear.
You were closer
than dust.
Nothing between us
but flesh.
No names.
No past.
No mercy.
I didn’t know
I could exist like this.
You didn’t promise.
You just were.
This wasn’t love.
This was removal.
You were a touch
with no right.
A flame
with no frame.
You weren’t “him.”
You were here.
And I —
became someone
I didn’t recognize.
We breathed
through one nostril.
You stared
like you were waiting
to be condemned.
I didn’t know
how to be simpler.
I just was.
You didn’t touch me —
you entered me.
You left
without slamming the door.
You evaporated.
Like belief.
And I remained —
dense,
fevered,
a body holding
onto aftershocks.
You won’t come back.
Good.
You weren’t a story.
You were lava.
You spilled
and cooled
in the corners.
And I walk on you now,
like a floor.
I still move
through your shadows.
Closeness
is my full-time job.
You didn’t give me yourself.
You gave me the burn.
And I still carry it.
Like a gift.
We sat as close
as stitches in a wound.
Now I know
what can happen.
How a body
can be scorched
and not die.
How silence
can say it all.
How you can be everything
between us.
Now I don’t believe
in soft.
You left.
But I hold the line.
Between “before”
and “after” —
there is me.
Not yours.
Not mine.
You broke me
into touches.
I rebuilt myself
with wounds.
I don’t believe
in soft anymore.
I’m heavy.
Burning.
Foolish.
You weren’t love.
You were proof
that I could burn.
And still want more.