Symphonic poem

Claps and slaps and clicks and clacks create a song, a soundtrack for us. The overture is pink and romantic, swooning and swelling. The following movements, repeatedly painful, is a symphonic poem without release. Please finish.

Nail bed

My fingernails started falling off after I clawed at your scalp. Biting the broken nail bed makes my heart and hands raw. With my paws on hold, I take this time for re-growth and repair away from you.

Myth of pain

Is it a myth that pain confirms that you are alive and responding to the outside world? You hurt me and I know I am not alone. I don't know how I feel about that kind of reassurance. I would rather you love me in solitude.

Drunken words

Being a little drunk romanticizes your abusive words.

You're ugly when you smile.

I'm pretty when I cry? You always liked me better with drops on my cheeks.

I'll take what I can get, because there isn't much more.

Fingertips

Tingling skin and chattering flesh. Tingling flesh and chattering skin. I don't know what sounds like your hand in mine. My fingertips have needles carefully tucked under the top layer of skin, making a five-pronged pin cushion, a little puppet to keep me from being alone. I draw little faces on my fingertips. Now I can look them in the eyes and they can look in mine.

Foggy

A little twitch in my dominant eye makes you flicker just a bit. Lowering that lid, you become half-full and foggy. I'm not sure if I want that to clear or just imagine what I want you to be. The sun will rise and dry the air and I will see you and not my fantasy.

Bitter

Bitter coffee. Bitter sentiments. Bitter winds. I always count on you for that flavor that won't leave me alone.

Kitchen table on Friday

My nose runs and my finger nail snags, but I still want you near. You wouldn't see me. And even though I would know that you are terribly, terribly, terribly unavailable it would be better than being alone.