cold hands, cold feet

sliding marble against a glossy wood floor

yawning until the air is caught at the back of your throat

deep shivers and stretches that shake the muscles

and pull them like saltwater taffy

folding in, folding out

you know, all of my pictures are my own

because i must force myself to find beauty

in a place that i loathe so much

or i swear i’ll go mad

but i’m not sure if i’m too late

the wafted steam drawing from my tea cup

my favorite pen that writes neatly and feels good in my hand

they’re hard to come by

a matching outfit that i know i’ll always keep

trying to gain a sense of normality

the feeling of your body pulsing

after sprinting

where the heart seems to overtake all systems

frantically trying to keep up with my silly little game

then coming home in the dark and feeling it beating a solid, solemn drum in my chest

my calf cramping up

into one of the shotput balls they keep in the shed

flushed red skin pulled on my collarbone and on my face

i wish i could get on a plane

and leave everything

but you don’t know anyone, they retort

exactly, i say

i never said i wanted to be recognized



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