Posts Tagged ‘skin’

Seconds are spent making scribbles

into words.

Then the abrupt

change,

the buzz sits like a heavy crown

and hurts like a bruise

on top of my head.

 

Electric eels no bigger

than worms

crawl beneath my skin.

They work their way down

my neck-

 

my spine, a railway-

and enter my arms.

 

I feel them squirm atop my bones.

 

Words change.

They are mine and no longer

mine. 

Each dark letter is

an abyss

pressed onto paper.

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Face paled in light,

every shade within the eye

revealed. The light is

no different from shadow-

it hides the recognizable.

Old friends become

pale ghosts,

different from memory.

How shadows smooth

harshness of face and skin,

while light reveals

imperfections, and illuminates

wildness therein.

Where once was sighing-

the great cave opening

to a three-quarter moon;

white stalactites and stalagmites

shaped like gravestones;

a pink worm

pressed to the cave floor,

hiding its red underbelly;

air escaping in a hollow hiss-

now

the dark round emptiness of

it remains, and

the cave walls are close

but not touching,

and there is

no movement.

Where the bronze fire of your skin

almost seared my flesh,

there are, instead, these pale

pink petals giving me my identity-

separate from you.

Tenderness lives in hands.

In the soft, light, and feathery touch

of skin on skin- Tenderness is passed.

In loving caresses Tenderness relinquishes warmth,

then rushes to hearts and quickens their pace.

Tenderness takes its time

knowing when tears will form,

when happiness abides in the smallest of smiles,

and gratefulness shows in the slow closing of eyes.

Tenderness takes root

at the clasp of palms, and fingers entwining.

It grows in the hearty laughs, genuine smiles,

and red blood visibly rising in cheeks.

Tenderness blooms

where two bodies meet with the slightest of touches,

and grows through years of unity,

where smiles, laughs, and touches never cease.

 

If I were to peel back your skin,

what would I find underneath?

Is there some sort of baby there–

howling, malnourished,

thin as cardboard with veins

bulging underneath its tomato-skin like fat worms?

Is there nothing but an idol

whose limbs operated so humanly,

but only after the pale curtain was pulled away

was the inhumanity of its brass knob joints,

rigid gold stature,

and manufactured glass eyes revealed?

Or is it human?

Is there a heart?

Small, churning

and humming like an engine;

taking shape not as a crimson fist,

but as a flickering light,

fluttering like the sun,

nestled under your skin

in the cavity of your chest.