The hands that trace my skin are not mine; they are not wanted. They were never wanted. I can still feel them on my skin, crawling like a spider up and down my shins. Tracing every bit of skin they had no right to. They claim my body, make me impure. “Come on, baby, you know you want it.” Violated everything he shouldn't have, he took everything that made me, me. My skin, my safety, my sanity. He claimed me with his hands, still a stranger. He still makes my skin crawl, still a stranger. He haunts my dreams, I can no longer sleep in peace, still a stranger. Still on the streets. He made me hate my skin, my clothes, even my bones. Everything that made me a girl. It felt like my fault, though it was not. Dresses became joggers. Smiles became tears. Pink turned to black. I put the old me in the past. But now I can see, his actions were not caused by me. His ignorance was never my fault. A dress is not a yes. A smile is not an invitation. And my body certainly was not yours to touch, to squeeze, to move your hands around as you please.