deranged woman

parasite

Why I fear touch:

The spark of my body has burned into your skin. The ember of my curve has been burnt into your memory. Yet why is it me that cannot forget the warmth of your waist on my cold lifeless hands. I do not want you to steal the last bit of radiance left in me: I do not want you to taint my image. An image that is even unknown to myself. Yet perhaps, I am jealous that a foreigner knows the meanders of my body that are foreign to myself. And while our fingers interlock my thoughts are drowned by the voices that consume my mind. The waves of paranoia that whisper to me as they inspect every groove of my boyish hands for flaws. And although I want to let go, I am trapped by the engulfing tidal waves of their touch that tarnish my iron body. All I am left with now is nothing but a brittle corpse that is rusting away. Yet, all I can see is how your golden skin glistens and gleams in the last bit of my warmth.