squeeze

i am squeezing things i should be holding onto. 

well, they are in my palm after all. 

watching them stretch and smash and become bloated until they burst. 

disfiguring you with my hands.

you're walking away but i'm clawing at your back imploring you to reconsider. 

"it stings," you say but still tie your shoes on the couch. 

i'm smiling at my phone and watching the tears press different buttons on the screen. 

"you should be holding me" 

your eyes are staring into the ceiling. 

you know i'm incapable of that. i'm thinking, but not saying. chewing my bottom lip. 

you place my hand gently on your ribcage but all i can do is squeeze, 

and squeeze, 

until you scream. 

and now you're angry and have a reason to go. 

i understand why you leave. 

but do you have to leave your scent on my sheets? 

wy do i smell you when i wash my hands, 

because you picked the hand soap? 

why am i left with these things, 

and all you took was your clothes. 

why can't i squeeze you? 

when squeezing is all i've ever known. 

the messages stop sending. and you move on, but i'm still there. 

digging my hands into my palms. 

watching them bleed, 

squeezing. 

when nothing is there to left to disfigure.