On the edge of rejection, because it’s true, you feel it, the tugging, the notification, that space between you seeks to multiply, you can lose yourself in that kind of abundance.
Holding on never helps and yet it is our instant response, your mother’s finger in your palm, close around it before you even know why.
Disgust dances on the tongues of all who watch. Also. Pity burns. The way the eyebrows cave in, and the deep crevices hollow themselves on soft faces.
I don’t want it. I just want him.