Who moves these keys,
Who wriggles this tongue?
Who bruises us?
When my fingers twitch,
and my muscles knot,
and my panic boils over.
It has been months.
What work has been done to develop these crevasses?
A weeks pay,
Will that smooth out the particular rotted groove?
I find you counting the freckles on their face,
How else could you stomach eye contact?
I wake up screaming words I must figure out.
I get it now, you find your time to speak,
Ashamed of the waking moments incapability.
You despise what I put forth,
Abrasive and discontent,
How does it feel to be suffocated,
By your own hands?
Despise our roots,
Not my various afflictions that have grown to flourish.
What fruits are there to bare?
Sickly, misshapen, toxic.
Surely whoever is to pluck my fruit will suffer for this.