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lycanthrope
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Things i once said,
seem strange and foreign to me.
I am ugly. This means i am broken.
They all told me this would happen.
But how can i believe when the touch of a warm hand is another truth.
How can the touch of one warm hand ever wear one down?
Did i miss half of the truth with each touch?
Who will touch me now?
When was the last moment ?
Did i know it?
Who will brush my hair and sing
secret songs with me?
Who will allow me the courtesy of smalltalk now?
Words are coarse uninformed hands now.
And i must recognize them,
if the mirror isn't to become
a lie, isn't to become just another warm hand;
holding my flesh at angles,
so that it feels for a moment,
like a present given to me.
So that it feels
as if,
it is always out there waiting
to be given.
I know now.
I know their trick.
I know the slight distinctions of lust
and love that i perfected.
I know them on both sides now.
I am not tired.
But who will believe me?
Who will touch me now?
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020910
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