a different kind of fondle.

“I was never insane except upon occasion when my heart was touched”–Edgar Allan Poe

Everyday, a disrobe so different than the night or day before that you wonder how many bones really entertain themselves in you. I mean, how do these wrists still endure. You ask about that tattoo, misspelled and crooked. It is more about the ink that has remained all these years. There are imprints from the shackles and that time where padded room forced you indoors. There is that invisible stain on throat from when belt wrapped itself around and around and you realized that ceilings are not as strong as they need to be. Just don’t let go. Try to look past fear of abandonment and cracked ribcage from all those break-ins. Persist. Carry on. Hang on to the ledge of paper with your name at the top. All that room has been left for you to transcribe your worry and reasons. Poetry is not jut a genre; it is a prescription. It is a remedy. It is the love affair you have been searching for.

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