Don’t touch me. Hold your vision. Take the yards between us and twist it. Mark the steps it takes to draw near. Lather process of elimination. Dip shards of types that manufacture into glazed falsities that muster willpower.
Hold me when you bleed. Hold us when we weep. Take the blazing bullets, stuck in the clear wind. Carry fresh wounds and dress them in dampened ointments. Fumble the mind with tasking queries of how we arrived.
Dancing for attention is the plot of the public that demands a shower.
Deeper cuts reveal shared flesh. Servicing organs can be held at the same time, unleashing the products of minted fluids that stain.
What we fear is the love that will be returned at the risk of our shame.