Creative Writing

Dissection. [Freeform Poem]

Because this hand is bleeding,

I cannot move to hold. 

Because these fingers want to hurt,

I cannot touch a thing. 

I can still feel, though, and somehow I’ll never not –

I feel a distance cut me when you tell me it’s an end. 

So neatly severed, then, I fester behind glass.

No, a connection cannot form through these transparent walls. 

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