Love Poked

people feel like:

pricks,

cacti,

stabbed harshly into my childhood,

feel like 

abandonment—

trapped inside disease,

aired by mothers death,

owned by me.

*

people feel like: 

possession,

rooted deep into my family tree,

like relatives at a distance,

but felt;

etched into my skin,

trickling into my veins,

the sounds of love—

drowned out by a chorus of 

needles.

*

people feel like:

mine

they must be;

without labels there is no assurance,

i require shots—

coursing deep through past places lived,

internalized need for control—

or comfort,

they must be.

people must be:

                  woven in 

between 

                  my curls,

caught around my nerves,

anxiously—

attached—

dependent.

*

trust is only ostensible after blood 

falls 

   down 

     my arm—

until i see red bleaching my roots,

i am now drawn to its glimmer,

now forever poked to its beauty;

owned only by me.

copyright micah hill 2025