This is me, touching you,
With caresses as tender,
As the first latching,
Of a newborns mouth,
Onto his mothers breast,
This is me.
Here I am,
Expunging to you,
Exfoliating all beneath my skin,
Like seasonal disregard,
Of what was once alive,
Is no longer of use.
What more do you desire?
Mechanical smiles,
Touch for the sake of it,
Presence to fill a chair,
Plagiarised lies,
Masquerades, disguise?
Why do you insist?
To find comfort only,
In tying my helium filled soul,
To the weight of your drudgery,
Anchoring my ascent,
To your lifelong miseries?
I was only fourteen,
Did you have to tell me?
Did you have to unveil for me to see?
Your tragedy,
Make it mine,
Forever fuck me mentally, soulfully, spiritually emotionally?
That’s why you have no business touching me.
And if my words aren’t burning that salt wound pulsing,
You have no business communicating with me.
None.
-W.E.
lonerloaner 
Love your writing. So very touching..
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Thank you. I appreciate you Heather.
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Very welcome
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I have to admit, your photography is a travel. Causes retina burn, as I stare and drift off to places.
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I can only hope that they cause drifting into a good place far away.
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The best place…… at times far, at times around the corner like a neglected neighbour, the place is inside, always inside, depending on the picture, how far I go.
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This makes me very happy to hear. Just keep drifting you never know what you will see.
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Also… Thank you.
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