Posted in art, poetry, writing


Freak  You don’t know about the paranoia nestled in my fingernails. I pick at my cuticles to get at it, peeling through to the blood vessels beneath.   I haven’t heard from you in three days and the skin around my nails looks like an active volcano, lava crusting against cracked rock.  I fear that you forgot me.  I clench my fists in desperation, to quiet the obsession, the need to be needed.  I concede to speak against your silence. My hands cramp in the waiting.  I succumb to insecurity— the translucence of my ghost white complexion, that you don’t see enough of me to remember my presence.   I rip at flesh with my teeth, the taste of blood staining my tongue.  I measure my worth in your wants, a bad habit.


Poetry and music.

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