an echo of rotting memory-
i bruising of sorts,
begging to be prodded and touched and grazed.
you never have to kiss my skin again,
but i wonder if it is my complexion that has turned you away,
or the way my hips fold out and in,
or the way my teeth lie crooked.
i want to be touched by you,
but i fear i'm not worth the kinetic connection of your skin.
i want to be touched by you,
but i'm terrified i'll never be loved quietly in such a dark corner again.
YOU ARE READING
speak softly
Poetryyou speak until your breath gives out, and the shallow huffs of words they never heard beg to be buried; but live on in the sidewalks. - - - prose/poetry
