Sometimes I am unsure of what to do with myself
like my hands are yearning to touch something
To feel something
Yet they refuse to reach out
It is quite counterproductive,
And I know this.
At times my heart cries out for connection
Constantly Exhausted by fake hellos an nonchalant goodbyes
my mind stands on guard preparing to cut any cord that dare attempt to implant itself
Like It knows I have nothing left to give
Like My heart is somehow unaware
I give until my fingers bleed
staining everything I touch in crimson
Leaving evidence of me everywhere
I do not know how to be surface
I do not know how
To hold back
Or stop the shaking in my hands
As I hand you the last piece of me,
I hold my breath
Praying there are still good people in the world
And that for once
I get it back.
-B-