Hands too numb To move anymore Resting my head On the inside shelf Reflected in the plastic High on the scent Of must and dead butterflies Breathe out hard To fog up my reflection I don't want to see myself
I always feared that when he touched me he would draw back his hand in disgust. Instead he holds me like old pages chasing the foxes he holds me like delicate lace tracing each vine and makes me feel rare and beautiful.