hot pocket cold pocket

 all the lines in my fingers quiver

weave bend, none straight

a gentle shiver woven fibers

skin cell dust

curving my branches

my fragile fingers

to hold

the reflection of my face

a sphere of light, in my palm

a broken egg on hot concrete

a warm pocket to place my fingers into, in that unbearable cold freezing terrible winter east coast air

longing for evergreen and soft dirt and winter never feeling like it started or ended

and burying strange herbs and bones in the backyard under a full moon

finding chicken's blood on my forehead

and only ever being known for 

being known for

being known

being not known

wrapped up 

like a piece of gum

and maybe i held the bird / the face / the sun in my palm too tightly

or maybe i'm a monster

is it easier easier easier

make a glob in your cheek and hold it there forever

kinda easy living

like a pebble in your shoe, you see it and re-glue it back to the inside

so it grinds into the previous wound and re-dents it 

so you can complain

and lose hope

and lose fibers of yourself

they just fall off

like dead skin

like all my past relationships

what a terrible future

walking around with no flesh

just an animatronic human cage of bones and wires

what a terrible dream bone cage

what a terrible world full of terrible people

every one is terrible

and they still have their fibers

i don't know if I like anyone

like, the air is too salty

and my fingers quiver too much

and my eyes hurt from seeing