Words dancing on marrow

touchingme
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.

8 thoughts on “Words dancing on marrow”

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