living inside a prism
that reflects the light
and breaks it into fragmented colors
that stain the white hallways,
your breath a sandstorm
my hands crave skin
any skin
my hands crave hands
and pumping bodies
to fill a void larger than the empty matter
that surrounds
our drooping heads.
my stomach is a green house
of sticky moisture
sickly green
the roots between my lungs
were ripped out with calloused fingers
and i don't think i've ever been held
with the intent to instill comfort.
no lips to kiss my bones and cloak
them in the idea
of having an existence that
isn't so
completely    alone