Put Your Hands Straight Through Me

My fingers spread like they should
but whether or not they’re mine is debatable.
My limbs exist like a clutter of heavy weather above the streets of a dim and faceless city.
I wish to cultivate the buildings, tall and smaller;
under their wings, into the fold.

Meanwhile,
the biology of me is saturated with everything, anything and nothing at all
And the people next door read books,
any books.

But my speech is conquered by distorted instruments,
separated from every molecule injected into my gut and sibling organs

And I am here again
I’m being fucked
Fucked in my dutiful crevice,
in unison with the penetration of my soul,
with keep-safe hate and regret.

Red masses of mulch and mud,
Each breath claiming oxygen to keep and stow away with the rest of them.

You can put your hand right through me, and I’ll always be back;
Despising my reflection more than the last time and less than the next.