show me your hands. Don’t
show me the fingers that once
curled over a spoon of gruel
now ticked upon a trigger. Don’t
let me see the white pools of your eyes,
nor the iris, the pupil, that which
took the world anew. Don’t
let me see your lips pursed
on a target that once took
the nipple and nursed
in the heat of love. Don’t.
Because if, I cannot.
My mother would not
have it so.
Image: Tommy van Kessel 🤙 on Unsplash
Gosh, I want to punch some one right now. Your poetry have an odd affect on me. 🙂
Haha – the is the best comment I’ve ever received. Thank you so much.