Feet Skipping Up the Stairs
I am withering
under the burden of memory,
distract myself by trying to maintain
my fuckable parts.
I have forgiven the tiny guests
that left my body a disaster
but still send flowers
on my birthday, sometimes call.
Sometimes, when Iím sad,
I can feel their tiny hands on my skin
those ghost fingers that clutched at me
for more, always more
specters I miss more
than I can stand to admit.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Holly Day would be
pleased to hear them.