Blaming my tears on grief but really re-living the chaos of unclaimed limbs folded up in my lap.
That mattress on the floor wrapped in pizza boxes and empty styrofoam cups; interior decor.
The weight of unrequited love. Or worse: unrequited touch. The welt that you carried around for a year and a half on your heart.
Someone… some thing… saying… “this doesn’t feel right”.
A guided arm into the bathroom.
A whisper of defeat and stubbornness.
A nap on the bath mat.
The corner of the door frame pressing into my back—
The car,
And the keys,
And the never-ending chase.
Asking,
“Where do I go?”
A blazed man in a too short coat
(His wrists appearing)—
He takes off his coat
To aimlessly wander around in my mind.
He is good at taking up space.
He inspects the brain and the body and comments on how well they are doing. behaving?
And I wait for the time to pass where he finds it opportune to leave.
Months — or days— seconds sometimes.
He occupies my time so much I don’t know whether my time is mine!
And there is so much lack. Not enough ammunition.
To remember, or better: to forget.
And I look in the mirror, naked, only to find that the man with the exposed wrists has taken up space in my mind again. Aimlessly wandering around. Knocking on things. Sitting in all my chairs. Leaving his residue.
To touch without care.
How was it possible for such soft skin to allow such careless hands?
She reflects, “was ‘temple’ only synonymous to man?"
This “temple” must not be a temple, but a shed.
Holding seasons of work.
Storage.
Waiting and wanting to be opened.
But apathetic.
Slow to want.
A brief craving. Not lust.
A want for understanding and sensitivity.
A want for silk and satin and high thread count sheets.
It is in the distance of the back door to the shed, covered in ivy, that diminishes all thoughts of touch.