I wake, but I'm already dead.
I look to your lips for grace. A single kiss.
I slip out of my clothes & give myself to you,
and you turn off the lights & pull away. More darkness.
I feel like a skin on a potato peel being peeled off,
image of my body sliced off with each rejection.
I touch no one.
The room grows cold. Ice.
Blue fingers, blue sad heart aching for warmth, touch.
I do not know anothers gentle love.
This body feels like a banged up doll,
a sack to be tossed around without softness.
I know the agony of love unfillfilled,
It's been my life long torture.
Wasted fire inside my flesh,
a body not accustomed to pleasure.
Is my skin hard yet?
I am wailing, weeping to be set free,
pour kerosine on me quick. Is somebody in this sack of flesh?
Feed me gasoline if you must, but please don't let me rust over
tin man like, scarecrow like, stiched up monster of Frankenstein like,
I am dying from lack of brightness fed,
I am a corpse of fire, the living dead,
splotches of marks upon my skin silently ignored,
and I am waiting for the ice pick to melt away &
feel sunshine of soft hands dancing on my skin,
heating up my cells,
like a fire thrower shaving off this deep freeze,
so I can leave this coma, for life, in its golden form &
still I sit as plastic as a disregarded old barbie doll,
and again ask ,is my skin hard yet?