winter worryland

I used to let them touch me
after a few drinks it didn’t matter
what they said
or didn’t

Searched for meaning in fingertips
I wanted them on my cheek
they wanted pink flesh
I let them have it

Like a overripe fruit
As I got older, softer even
my exterior grew unsightly
bruised easy, unwanted

My bed is not a fucking grocery store
and I am not a piece of produce

I discontinued the process
to mollify your inability to love
like I do, which is the only way

My heart no longer aches
to drum from someone who
doesn’t want to hear my song