The way that they watched me was as if they were looking through a layer of glass. I saw you there looking too. You looked so soft but your eyes are so hard and cold. Why won't you help me. Why won't you hold me. I will plead to you from the depths of my heart for you to join me and cradle my soul in your arms.
My soul.
Yes- my soul. That's right, isn't it?
But there are creases in my organs. Where someone has to reach their hand inside and see how well it can be held.
Perhaps I need you beneath my flesh.
There is singing. There will always be singing.
Prod your way into the place where my soul is stored. Your hands will be sticky. You will feel my blood and bile in between your fingers and you will gasp softly at the incorporeal raptures of being.
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