by J.F. Pringle
Tough thumb skin scratches against the imperfections of that damn glass.
Scroll up. Scroll down. Feels the same.
But tough skin is wanting as the display of words changes.
Exchanges of hatred.
Imperfect people.
Feeling isolated, naked.
What am I seeking as I read and reread?
I guess I hope the words change.
To sweet things. Comfort things. Love things.
Instead, I feel the same stings.
I want to change the outcome if I can.
But I can’t, can I?
Ten minutes of ‘baby, let’s stop this’
Gone in two seconds as I hold this.
Delete button was the death kiss.
Kiss of death that don’t miss.
Alone and dismissed.
That’s what I am.
Just a post in her life she never Tweeted.
An unsent text.
Deleted.