Do these hands clasping mine now,
Know that mine holds blood on them,
Whatever might be the reason,
This new touch awakens new sensations,
Different from such a touch usually imparts,
Itself on my body as if it were their dominion,
That touch no longer exerts
Or command the control over me,
I have made sure that they never move again,
But these new hands, while doing the same touches, although gentle,
Are essentially doing the same things,
But why do I not feel hate, but derive pleasure,
Does that mean I am capable of having feelings,
Was it him all along who made me recoiled by them,
And not my inability to enjoy those intimate relationships,
Maybe his blood washed those self doubts away,
As I react to this new touch with reciprocal passion,
I burn brighter than ever as if I caught the flame of Prometheus.