Letter from open palms

You are an experience
that shivers away from my outstretched hands.
Dances upon my fingers, teasing me,
“I am something you will never have.”
Pulls on my arteries telling me,
“you are nothing. Nothing at all.”
Bruises the walls of my mind, tormenting me
with its laughter, singing, yelling, crying–
I am left with my blankets in the middle of the night,
looking to the figure past the glass
who says nothing,
nothing at all.

without Shame

In the absence of my cramping hands,
I run like a deer, no worries of headlights,
no Shame in my freedom.
I soak up sunlight like a sponge,
much more than what is necessary,
no Shame in my gluttony.
I let words spill out like tiny waterfalls,
no Shame in my impulsivity.
Whether that be good or bad is not up to me;
whether Shame be good or bad is not up to me.
Still, I am guilt-ridden,
I can only close my eyes and
think of a world without Shame.