When we meet, your palms are open.

You shake my hand, I feel your sweat. Your palms stay open and I don't even flinch.

You want me.

And dear god, I want you.

You don't say anything, you just keep smiling.

You're afraid of me, little thing. You're afraid. And I'm afraid too.

You look so young and so delicate. Were you always so pretty, or did you just make yourself beautiful for me?

And you won't speak. And I won't ruin it with words because I always ruin it. So you're just standing there, with palms open and a smile so small I've almost mistaken it for a look of distaste. When the silence eats me alive, I think I should know more about you. I touch your skin. You're milky and silky and so pretty. I love you because you're so soft. You're the flowers in a garden that hasn't died yet. You're just so pretty.

You're such a beautiful thing and I hope you know. I hope you know you're wrecking it all by hanging around people like me.

I bet you're the type that listened to mommy with smiles and tinkly laughs. I bet you're like that because you're so good and so delicate. You haven't been touched by people like me. No one's given you a reason to turn back and hide. And you're so special that way. I hope you know you're wrecking everything.

I hope you know everything won't be so pretty anymore.

You won't be so pretty and soft and so white, so snow white. Your skin won't ever feel the same again and the smell of peaches and strawberries on your skin won't stay there for long.

So when I touch you, you close your eyes. When my hand brushes against your cheek, you shudder. You're so scared. You're so scared, you little thing. You are so scared.

And so am I.