Body Type


His bright pink hands sat at the bottom of his torso,
sufferable thoughts long overdue.
Charcoal eyes and hands were shaking,
shaking with the fear of a job accomplished,
warning bells singing though his head,
musical notes climbing up and down the stairs in his heart,
playing up against the nervousness he felt.
Disheveled hair biting down onto his forehead,
covering his eyes as though there's somewhere to hide.
Fear can follow you everywhere,
into the places you expect it not to,
begging and pleading for it to stop,
but it won't,
persistent as the blood pumping through your veins,
These red hawks circling, waiting for you to drop dead,
vacant stares,
worried about these things we can't control.
He has the fear of falling apart,
these unforgettable windows to his bones,
no soul, no belief in my ankles,
rooting me to the ground.
My eyes staring at your hands,
wishing that they were clean.

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