how to not die alone(on hold)

and there really is no cure.

soft skin.
its always on their minds
then on their tongues
they cant help themselves,
but they do help themselves, to it

and youre getting fucking sick of it.

you began, at first by
smiling, swooning, entertaining,
all soft eyes and smooth edges.
but when their lazy eyes and sticky fingers started
to prod, and poke, and push,
you found that,
all those sweet words
had been rotting you away from the inside
and you
collapsed.

like an overwatered cactus there was nothing left.
that soft skin, once everything, now:
the only thing.

and you really were fucking sick of it.

but did you know that when cacti sink in on themselves they
still have their spikes and
they cant help it when
they tear themselves apart.
well you were tearing yourself apart.

but your spikes were
substituting soap, for sandpaper, and
drawing blood just to leave a scar, and
turning yourself inside out in the hopes that
it wasnt so soft when your wore it that way.
it didnt work. it never does.
you were rotten. you were soft. it was terminal.

and you really were sick of it.