I quit smoking but this poetess
needs her hit, her puff, her drag.
And I can still taste nicotine on my fingertips like
the sweat on your skin.
It’s a phantom sense
like the tingling in my toes—
Dead nerves.
I put on black nail polish and an old flannel
because I feel like sixteen again
when the wind whips my hair up
into the tornado that hangs over my head.
Rain clouds are for amateurs and I build weather formations
to hide my intentions.
I dance with demons and dummies.
But it’s all the same
as being young and in love
before needles prickled at my skin and
left me numb. Frightened.
These little bits of a broken heart,
these sharp shards that leave
faint pink lines on my skin
keep me from second guessing my silly self.
This itching in my fingers is a reminder
of bad decisions and salty storms.
that youth betrayed me.
Dead nerves in my hands
like dead nerves in my heart.