There were times when you
begged
me to tell,
let you unravel the cord wrapped
so tightly wound around
lies, secrets, ghosted and deadened emotions.

You weren't surprised when
the cobwebs latched in my throat,
eight legged creatures in the bend of my spine
scattered.

You didn't turn around
from the ghastly sight,
nor shield your eyes.

You grabbed a broom,
grabbed a shoe.
Gathered away the webs,
swept in a pile.
Murdered the creatures,
washed the evidence,
cleaned smooth.

You grabbed a chair,
no, grabbed two.
One for me, another for
my feet.

You insisted
so incessantly.
I agreed.

You unraveled the thread,
started at my head.
Through my frontal lobe,
straightened my two crooked front teeth,
loosened my spinal cord,
kissed my scarred thighs,
lingered on my faded striped forearm,
held me close.

You gained the keys
to each and every lock.
Heard every story,
kissed every scar.

It was a sad day
when you threw the keys.
Into the black river,
threw it all away,
and instead caught her.

There are times,
too far many,
the spaces between them are fading,
becoming slivers of slight reassurance.

But there are times,
when I no longer feel like a person,
no longer feel human,
cold to the touch and lifeless.

There are times when I fade into the background,
far too many,
watch the people pass by.
Sometimes, I muster the courage,
let my fingertips ghost along the skin of their arms.
Watch the bumps form, fear lingers in my eyes.

Most don't turn,
they're used to us.
They don't leave a glance, don't turn,
don't face us.
It's disgust, but also fear.
They don't want to become like us,
hollow, spaced and cold to the touch.
They like warm, soft skin, glowing white teethed smiles
and lively eyes.

But, there are some, who turn around and leave a lingering glance.
Most don't see us, let their eyes leave us before they're focused.
They fear us, they're young, they don't understand.
Most of us feel twinges of guilt when they're startled,
turn on us wide eyed with panic swarming in their eyes like hornets.

The others, they're different.
There's a few, the ones who take the time out of their day,
smell the roses and are grateful for the small things.
Never take advantage, always gentle, kindred souls.

They don't flinch when they feel cold grate against their warm skin,
don't flinch when they meet the putrid hollow of our gaze.
Don't run away, don't break out into a cold sweat.
Most smile, a warm, friendly grin with paint white smiles.


I used to believe he was one of them,
would guide me from the dark of the background
into the light and introduce me to life.