moments like these make the best poems
swimming in the shimmered blurs between blinks
dizzy and swaying to silence
existing only in stop or fast-forward
or pass-out
waiting for the moments like these that make
me too afraid to text you back, too afraid
to get up from the couch because
it feels like self-loathing and I am so comfortable here
sinking into over-stimulated and catatonic
and do not touch me, I swear
you were not born with poisoned fingers
but I have been haunted for long years, and
my skin cannot tell the difference now
between ghost hands and yours
No comments:
Post a Comment