i hate when i can feel
my pulse in my fingertips,
like my blood is trying to escape
but can't flee from the reality of my skin
(which is only a trick to make us believe
we're whole in ways we're not,
solid in ways we cannot translate
to thoughts and feelings and words
without making us believe that somehow
the curve of a body is real enough
to provoke a stare,
or permit a touch,
or a whole-hearted feeling of need)
which is a thing that dies in the sun
and tells us it's cold to be alone.
when was the last time
i felt hope in my body?
why can't my blood run to that?
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
i hate when i can feel
my pulse in my fingertips,
like my blood is trying to escape
but can't flee from the reality of my skin
(which is only a trick to make us believe
we're whole in ways we're not,
solid in ways we cannot translate
to thoughts and feelings and words
without making us believe that somehow
the curve of a body is real enough
to provoke a stare,
or permit a touch,
or a whole-hearted feeling of need)
which is a thing that dies in the sun
and tells us it's cold to be alone.
when was the last time
i felt hope in my body?
why can't my blood run to that?
