My Wrists Can Stay — by Judith Staff
The aura of disgust a glimpse, or fleeting touch evokes.
Almost imperceptible, but only almost. It registers, somewhere;
A faint echo of revulsion, tinged with melancholy, impales the quiet.
I shut my mind’s eyes, desperate to stop the thought dead.
Unhalted, it always rushes towards the desire to slice, or crush,
Or suck away those places where such a vile aversion is brewed.
Where is it seeping from, this poisonous despising of my physical self?
A noxious weed with a stranglehold on my image of my shell’s exterior.
A perception saturated in contempt, living in hiding, ever beyond reach,
A lightyear or two away from what others seem convinced they can see.
My wrists can stay; the rest – one day, I promise to loathe you less.
But for now I wish you were someone else’s;
I wish you were not mine.