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?