Philautia

Love of the self

 

The glass screen flickers

Its blue light harsh, blinding

Burning retinas too dry for tears

Deserts on cracked cheeks 

 

Limbs of metal, creak and groan

As you try to move your contorted,

Rancid, husk of a body, fingers moving

Slowly, on their own time, the only part that works

 

Rust covered eyelids droop to a close

Hoping for the soft, releasing touch

From the man in the shadows,

But are met with a glowing hand, and a softer touch

 

Eyes that are your own,

Without the purple bags or the dull grey stare,

Hair that is your own,

Without the slick dripping grease,

A smile, warm, unlike your own

 

Hands, your own but smelling of lemon grass,

Cup your unwashed face, a blanket voice,

Soft and comforting, drapes along your stiff shoulders

“Breathe,” your voice says, “you’re going to be alright”

 

Your joints loosen, your spine unfolds

Crystal tears rush down your now vibrant face,

Clean and cold, your heart beats again 

A smile, unsure but there, stretches across your face

 

Hands, shaking, but your own, 

Ring out the black grease and brush off the dust, 

You are safe

You are alive