living in boxes

I have seen your face
a thousand times in backgrounds of
my photos with him; them photos i now hide in secret boxes and
bury beneath forgotten clothes.

I never knew you had
such a smile, for I never
took pictures with you - maybe I should start,
for you seem to have so many
of mine.

I know you from somewhere special,
it's a place I go to when I dream of
feeling like nothing went wrong,
but I never really dared to dream again after
my heart tore into pretty little pieces that
fell into your hands, somehow; now.

And I don't really remember how to
take someone's hand,
but if you promise the patience,
you could teach me.

You touch me with an odd familiarity. Well,
why not, you know my flaws.

Every trace of your fingertip means so much more
than when I
absentmindedly play with your hair only to
pull back for I remember
not to open up
for I am scared - to be quite frank.

He had hurt me in ways that I
don't want you to, please. I know I ask
a lot, but
he had given me too little.

I sometimes wish to be
those wrapping papers of
birthday gifts
that never end up in bins.

Can you promise to unwrap me
delicately or will you just
rip me open and throw me away

like he did?