Let’s begin with your hands. Pulling hair and picking on strings of hearts and guitars. Typing and writing. Would your hands be happier hiding? In a dark room with a desk? Hands can be so dangerous if you know how to use them. I’d like to feel them tight around my neck. Closing in on breast and hips and... Your hands turn to fists a lot I bet. What about your lips? Do you lie to yourself when you use your hands and bend your wrists to light euphorias within? Do your lips leave you longing for sonant truth only your hands can execute? I want you to feel me through your chest. You keep my fingernails stained with your blood and bones and flesh. We are carcasses full of maggots. Marrow made of magnets. Wearing skin jackets stitched together with staples and vices we don’t know how to live without. Let’s forget. Let’s remember walking down dark roads and waking in dark rooms with desks. This time with paper and pens. Let’s begin again. This time with just our hands.
Kind of a love poem? Maybe? Idek what I’m talking about at this point