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.