its a cigarette singeing the fingertips
sirens crying to a deaf ear
a hammer smashed against necrotic flesh
can’t you feel that?
you are a wind that rails against the moon:
thousands of miles away
she cannot hear and cannot feel you
she can see but never touch
*how do i feel after so much disaster?
what world could we have?
what could we be?*
old callouses thicken and spread
but the blood inside is dead
and the feeling fades
pressing again draws no special ache
*bruises blooming like
lies from your lips like
nightshade in the dark*
tell me the truth that i might feel the wind
the burn, the pain, the blood.
chip off the callouses and expose my skin
melt my heart to feel your infirmity
or else entomb me in the stone
of my own making.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
its a cigarette singeing the fingertips
sirens crying to a deaf ear
a hammer smashed against necrotic flesh
can’t you feel that?
you are a wind that rails against the moon:
thousands of miles away
she cannot hear and cannot feel you
she can see but never touch
*how do i feel after so much disaster?
what world could we have?
what could we be?*
old callouses thicken and spread
but the blood inside is dead
and the feeling fades
pressing again draws no special ache
*bruises blooming like
lies from your lips like
nightshade in the dark*
tell me the truth that i might feel the wind
the burn, the pain, the blood.
chip off the callouses and expose my skin
melt my heart to feel your infirmity
or else entomb me in the stone
of my own making.
