Your palms are warm as they sink into my skin.
Massaging me.
Molding me.
Heating me up.
My aching flesh grows tacky with each kneading motion.
Allowing me to melt.
The intense,
rhythmic movement of your fingers gradually becomes mellow.
They are gummed up with my viscosity,
as I am reduced to a puddle.
I am all that occupies your hands.
I can feel your uneasiness as I drip down your arms.
Your fear of saturation.
Fear of being drowned.
Your warmth fades.
With a frantic shake of your hands,
I am scattered onto the walls.
Trickling
down,
down,
down.
Left to drain into dark crevasses and solidify. But you know it as well as I do.
My residue will always remain on your palms.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Thoughts
PoetryA collection of mostly free verse poems and short stories. Sometimes it is nice to simply clear your head. *Trigger warnings: descriptions of disturbing themes such as: body horror, death, interactions with the uncanny, topics in biology, and suici...
