Wordle #186

Week 178

Life assures me like cancer

that I am finite, farfetched,

suppressed as a simulacrum.

It’s not possible to think

about the present moment

when married to its vision.

Everything that exists,

exists on a continuum

of reflection and conjecture.

What was once transparent

is now rooted like granite

with splinters of chamomile

bursting free at the edges.

It only takes a thimbleful,

a single breath, a ray of light,

a drop of blood to get me going.

All humans are layogenic,

a sideways glance,

a bout of nostalgia,

a darkened room

with two sets of curious eyes

locked togetherĀ in breathless limbo.

Once met you’ll discover me.

I’ll never give you what you want.

Worth is synonymous with depth.

My scars are carved, not painted

red and bold like lips on paper.

It’s the constant itching

that reminds me that I’m current.

Who would I be without

these disfigurements?

Never trust a smiling face,

it takes longer to heal

when the wound is uneven.

I am not autophobic justĀ conscientious

I don’t want to be blinded by conceit,

to find myself adored

by a stranger with sticky hands

and a heart overflowing with forgiveness.

Love is permissive like a drug,

if I should ever taste it

I’ll forget to come up for air.

I must maintain my ego,

the cracks in my heart

where I keep my needle and thread.

A fairy must remain anonymous

if she is to conjure.

Who would I be without

this blessed and cursed veil?

I can smell the bleach on your skin,

the ritual cleansings

the fear that your hands

might communicate your true intent.

What you love most about me

has nothing to do with me at all.

tough one!