This is my arm, this is my leg, this is my torso, and these are my lips. All of this brings together a skeletal structure that is held together by glue and tape.
A sensual architecture, something complicated, something that could be. It’s not bitter and it’s not sweet, it is my heart and it goes up and down with every beat.
I stand on the edge of the precipice and stare into a universe without stars. I throw glitter and try to make it all better, better better, it echoes through me.
Reverberating off the walls, ricocheting in my mind, I contemplate my worth. Dark blue horizon, black landscape, I’m sideways within myself, asking, “Why?”
This is my hair, this is my skin, these are my hands, and these are my feet. Bare as a winter tree withering in an ice cold wind, each branch is barely there.
The sun’s rays cut me; I’m light sensitive and pale as an Irish moon. Perhaps my eyes assume too soon, slicing glances and pushing away the tide.
And finally, that which is soft and hard all at once and desires a touch: My soul; a cosmic entity that feels almost everything, or nothing at all.
It haunts the house for which it lives and wants someone’s affection. Someone to give me gratitude and to love my entire anatomy for reasons unknown.
January 30th, 2016