Imprint of a hand

Will I ever be a
person who lives without the imprint of a hand
permanently on the back of my neck?
Without the itch of a whisper to electrify
my heartache?
(With last hopeless mouthed words
I say “I’m sorry”. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.)
With an ugly gulp
I swallow life down again,
forcing a sense of reality down the throat
so that I may even begin
to seek tomorrows and nextdays.
To be spoonfed your ideas of pretty life,
Perhaps I long for the next world in
hopes that my skin will stop screaming your names
my closed eyelids stop screaming your faces.
Heartache and solitude become the sensation-free alone.
That I’ve searched for since you paid special
attention to a young body.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s