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My fingernails
have dirt lodged in them
and my fingertips are covered
in black ink markings
and White Out
and the backs of my hands
are sunburnt
and the lines on my palms
are warning me of impending disasters
and chastising me for botched chances
and it feels like
a desecration
to hold them against
this shining smooth paper
that represents
or anything else I want it to be

This morning I am lost.

I look for some patch
on the surface of my soul
that is not stained
by you
so I could start there
or for some nook or cranny
in this vast room of ideas
that has somehow escaped
the onslaught on the senses that
I suffered when I met you
so I could go there
and try to hear myself think

but I am frozen on this chair
glued to this table
bolted to this
square meter of parquet floor
looking at my hands
so dirty and useless

thinking that
the words they write
will never reach you