Please, don't touch my knee
(writing)
Please, don’t touch my knee
I locked the yellow door, and I didn’t need to ask how I let my body happen again. I let this in
time my rye caught up unpleasing me through my gut into my eye. I’ll take my responsibility
now I pour in to my metal, then
my glass cup I don't think I deserve this. My straight spine (for now) sinking down my kitchen cabinet
Pink in the Night moon-like room, I cross
Me, and look at my own left knee unlike anything, really
nothing underneath the blackout
and scars
“If that ever happens again, I want you to give me a signal,” protect us all with whipped eyelashes after the flicks fall, acquiring self-earned skilled grace, teaching
Is this because I’m unaccompanied ? gives you the confidence to interrupt
my work to tell me after ? exchange a few glaces that you couldn’t leave because you
need to tell ?
how beautiful I am. I say, “thank you.” ? exchange names. A smile slick, and more intense
up close, I choose
to remove my self from the work and kinder-eyed-smile tight offer
with you, outside. I decide to entertain the idea I could have been more interesting to say something more
doubtful, already
20s—Pain
by conversations. Asking
usual questions, I feel more accustom to asking piercing in to you then
in person. Where are you from? And, how long have you lived here?
(Say more on how, Austin)
What do you do? (More here.) What do you listen to? (More than) might be the question
gagging feeds the most
two people, before a warning
To tell you it doesn't matter now,
I thought then you’d never care
though I did, and I still do
now, still caring for me
touching my knee before you know why. I’m retouching my knee before you know why
my present to grinding screws between my growth
plates how much of this is part of me, now? And, necessary
physical limit
(2019)I have revised this piece from winter 2019 when I wrote the original lines to now—with major, most lasting edits in the spring of 2022. Posting now—
Thank you for reading,
Colore