I can tell,
that you really think,
you're the ****
...Yes,
oh, yes.
Oily slick, and steaming,
and I wouldn't filthy my dainty hands,
to scoop you, into mine.
Yet, here you be,
gracing us graceless maidens,
with your polish,
and presence.
...But you're nothing like a gift,
to me.
Your fingertips, wander
into the intimate
folded creases,
of dry, withering palms:
mine,
and they circle.
But my hands,
are persimmons.
Fussy fruits,
which rot,
and recoil
at the uninvited touch.
...So don't you ******* touch me.
...Unwanted.
Parasitic.
It's infectious,
in the way you think
your smile, is.
But my body,
is under the red tape.
if I spring back,
and spit, in your eye,
cobra-like,
consider it an act, of martial law.
I'm an entire police state,
and I don't fall beneath,
your jurisdiction.
...So don't you ******* touch me.
...Creepy ******
I'm not your mirror.
I won't blow cutesy kisses,
or bat kitten lashes,
back, at you.
I'm not here to tell you,
what you want, to hear.
Something behind my eyes,
is ticking,
in measured intervals.
You don't hear a sound.
You won't feel the impact, either
til the shrapnel, hits,
and you float, facedown,
Narcissus like
in the Dead Sea,
of these salty blues.
...So don't you ******* touch me.
... Unwanted.
Yet, here you are,
Playing Pictionary,
on a shrinking canvas,
with probing fingers.
They caress my heart,
and fate lines,
in sensuous tickles,
And my stomach,
flips.
I feel... sick.
I feel sick.
I feel sick.
They tease, my flesh,
in long,
gangly brushes,
like leggy spiders.
I couldn't be more repulsed,
unless they crawled,
into my open sores,
to lay their eggs.
I feel...sick.
I feel sick.
I feel sick.
...Unwanted.
The flat line, of my mouth,
is a no-solicting sign,
on a sealed door, of a face.
Why are you trying the knobs?
Why are you poking the locks?
You're uninvited.
Unwanted.
...So don't you ******* touch me.
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 9:20 AM UTC
I can tell,
that you really think,
you're the ****
...Yes,
oh, yes.
Oily slick, and steaming,
and I wouldn't filthy my dainty hands,
to scoop you, into mine.
Yet, here you be,
gracing us graceless maidens,
with your polish,
and presence.
...But you're nothing like a gift,
to me.
Your fingertips, wander
into the intimate
folded creases,
of dry, withering palms:
mine,
and they circle.
But my hands,
are persimmons.
Fussy fruits,
which rot,
and recoil
at the uninvited touch.
...So don't you ******* touch me.
...Unwanted.
Parasitic.
It's infectious,
in the way you think
your smile, is.
But my body,
is under the red tape.
if I spring back,
and spit, in your eye,
cobra-like,
consider it an act, of martial law.
I'm an entire police state,
and I don't fall beneath,
your jurisdiction.
...So don't you ******* touch me.
...Creepy ******
I'm not your mirror.
I won't blow cutesy kisses,
or bat kitten lashes,
back, at you.
I'm not here to tell you,
what you want, to hear.
Something behind my eyes,
is ticking,
in measured intervals.
You don't hear a sound.
You won't feel the impact, either
til the shrapnel, hits,
and you float, facedown,
Narcissus like
in the Dead Sea,
of these salty blues.
...So don't you ******* touch me.
... Unwanted.
Yet, here you are,
Playing Pictionary,
on a shrinking canvas,
with probing fingers.
They caress my heart,
and fate lines,
in sensuous tickles,
And my stomach,
flips.
I feel... sick.
I feel sick.
I feel sick.
They tease, my flesh,
in long,
gangly brushes,
like leggy spiders.
I couldn't be more repulsed,
unless they crawled,
into my open sores,
to lay their eggs.
I feel...sick.
I feel sick.
I feel sick.
...Unwanted.
The flat line, of my mouth,
is a no-solicting sign,
on a sealed door, of a face.
Why are you trying the knobs?
Why are you poking the locks?
You're uninvited.
Unwanted.
...So don't you ******* touch me.
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