Post-run at the watering hole

My blood is glue,
it willows with water.
But in blood,
velocity over viscosity.

The wires of my limbs carry
and I marvel at how deftly
they exceed
my ability
to impart with speech.

My skin bruises peachly
my heart far from reach, he
wants it his but I can't
seem to work the can opener
so I'll hole punch this can of worms
and watch them slither out one by one.

All I want is to take the hands
of someone who understands
what it is to feel a distance
to other humans.

I consult the bacteria in my gut for wisdom.
The overwhelming verdict is that
a suicide,
if unsucessful,
would be awkward and costly.

Reviews

[. serah .]

-- that really is wisdom... it's the epiphany which defines pragmatism at perhaps its most elemental level... -- oh, and you took the "can of worms" image to a whole new level of poetry... and i also liked the way you zeroed in on "what it is to feel a distance / to other humans"... -- i live in near-complete isolation and i relate to that in more ways than i could ever imagine... -- stunning stuff...

[wolfshrew]

You've got a way with imagery. I am looking forward to reading more.

[M. Shepherd]

Thank you Haret :)