When I press broken fingernails deep inside the
fleshy surface that is an anemic palm,
I am reminded-
I am real.
This is real.
Fourteen years old.
I remember the first time I got high
like it was yesterday,
but I can’t for the life of me
remember who am I.
Close-set eyes like brown almond paste-
(no my eyes are blue.)
Who.
This ****** body stripped of sin
only to mess it up again.
But I'm fine-
Everyone says so.
Fine like the wind in summer
blowing round and round cotton fairies.
And I press broken nails sharp like glass
into frail skin
if only to feel something.
But it never lasts long enough
to count.