Intimacy is a spatial issue. We don’t like to touch. Distant eyes, arms, knees, and breaths. Distant feelings. We’re afraid, but we call it things like Discomfort and awkwardness.
People who say that people grow like blisters all over the earth; The cynics are the first to harden into stone statue callouses. Do we hurt or are we hurt?
Hello hello hello We are all existing in our own little shelters of love And our own dreary pits of pain. Craving to be the blood in someone else’s veins while quietly inflicting our own hurt. Whirl-winds of bleached white sand To beat and grate our faces raw again- Red and screaming the way we were born.