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.

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