Grandmothers Should Bake

Cold, scrawny fingers

Like flesh-covered ice

Tell me for everything

There is a price.

They slip underneath

My shirt, then my bra

My emotions have never

Been nearly this raw.

She grabs and rubs,

She takes off my shirt

I stand there, alone,

Confused and hurt.

I know that she shouldn't

Touch me this way,

She should be baking

And teaching me to play.

Her hands slide down

My sides, I cry

As she brings a hand

Between my thighs.

Grandparents should never

Treat grandchildren this way,

But I guess this is

The price I pay.

Coming to her house,

Reminded I'm trash,

My mental health

Starts to crash.

Though I haven't seen

Her face in years,

Those fingers, like ice,

Still sometimes bring tears.

The memory of her

Hands on my skin

Will haunt me forever

From deep within.