spoken

the-woman-behind-me's arms, waving madly
she's pissed, completely pissed
at my inertia, trajectory.
but it's really her windshield wipers frantically swaying back and forth,
not her wavering anger,
in the torrential downpour.

you live inside me.
i've kept you here for a while, now
left you to ferment
hoping that, parasitically,
you could blossom into something beautiful with me.

but my life force cannot sustain yours,
your sinew, still attached to my phalanges
wither
and you must detach.
appearing like a fresh-cut hide,
your limbs curl up
and slowly you crumple, angular, like a sheet of weak paper
into a tight ball at the core of my body.
you manifest,
transcending my flesh
and i throw you away
wishing to rid myself of any hope of you.

but as my paws crawl inside,
what's left of you is a sticky mess
that i can't detach from.
and even as i pull desperately
with my shoulders
with my forearms, elbows and wrists
i can't remove you even from my hands.
and stuck now, are you,
to the very core of me;
stuck to my hands
with my hands stuck to you.

but this is good.