These are my fingertips. They fall between each other on the days where it's far too cold for them to be alone. But unlike my fingertips, I am.
They seem to run into everything today. Crawling over the ever edged surface and running along the corners of the microwave. I need hot food.
This despondent forest inside my mind calls me to itself once more and as I finally fall asleep I let it all go. My fingertips chasing fog through the night as I dream about nights I will never understand.
They're cold all the time now and it's not just my fingertips anymore, it's my hands too. They're so cold. If there was a way for something to warm them, nor artificially, I wouldn't feel this way. Warm hands powered by a warm and gentle heart.
Everyday photos of us fall into my view and my eyes are scratched out. I don't know who is doing this or why but to you I am no longer your "healing boy" as you once said, I am what I wanted to avoid; dead to you.
10 minutes till I clock in. And still, I'm lost in the forest. Their perfect eyes and teeth stare and smile at me as I walk through the building. But each crack in the tile leads to breaks in vines and foliage overgrown in every jewelry case and shoe box hanging from the walls.
I've never felt more lost than when the conversation dies upon my entrance. This nebulous is a toxic friend but I cannot stop using their shoulder to cry on.
If I am so strange, and out of place...
Why am I here?
In this forest, with my fingertips chasing nothing but fog.
