Worm

My face is flushed A searing, hot heat races from my heart, to my feet and my face. I am a disgrace in your embrace. I squirm A turning worm, writhing in the sun Surviving next to one, who won't burn me up.

Hands

Is the saddest kind of love, that which has been lost. Not one that has struggled through the peaks and troughs of hardship. Not one unrequited as he is far pitched above any man who'd lay eyes on her. When one who'd pave ways for her sits idle in the corner. His mind ravaged with …