the terror of un-recognition

a poem

there’s been nothing bitter about this,

but i like to wince, to screw my face up and turn my features into a ball as i stare into the mirror,

it’s what i’m used to. 

you call me sweet,

but i’m coated in metal not honey,

and it’s not jam that droops from my mouth, it hasn’t been for a while now. 

i’m ruled by longing, by incessant desire,

and so i like to ruin the things i should have, the things i need,

just so i want them all the more. 

and, 

is it okay to be scared of heat, of the sun that’s starting to come out again and of your breath against my neck? 

i know it’s human, i know it’s needed,

for my blood to rush like this, 

but i’ve grown accustomed to strings wrapped oh so tight,

to fingers oh so blue,

and so i’m scared now to lace them properly, carefully,

with yours.