My fingers are clean
And the scabs
Localized around my nail beds
Torn and flapping
Ripped apart by my teeth and nervous fingers
Are red, devoid of ink.
These hands once covered in blotches of blue
Red, black, charcoal
Not stiff anymore from holding pencils
My fingers are clean
And they seem to have grown longer
And paler, like reclusive spiders
Flexible white legs with highlights of blue
My veins show like sapphire filigree
Easier to reach the exclamation point
They say I can type 40 words per minute.
My eyes, I’ve noticed
Have begun to grow larger
I glanced in the mirror and saw the startled
Yet strangely confident
Look on my own face
I know where I am going
Those eyes seem to say
Luminescent, unfocused, bugged
Looking vacantly at a image
A screen that brings me the world
A world I care little about
And even now my fingers
These overworked spiders fly across the keys
Typing out the words you read
And your eyes have started to gloss over
If I knew what to do
I would tell you
I would say, run away. Get off the computer
Learn to feel.
But I don’t put much stock
In hypocrisy.
No comments:
Post a Comment