How terrible it is to love someone that others can touch –
to count the hair follicles they already know of
and not being the first one, to touch, to hug, or to ****.
How terrible it is to feel as if you are not enough,
so you sip your own blood,
until it pours from you like a cut, opening,
how terrible it is to know I would lap at it with tongue
and wish it were your skin forming dust to air my lungs,
you have just enough moisture to become us,
but how terrible it is to love someone that others touch.