straightjacket

i strapped my hands down to my body,
because i could not touch you. with belts,
with chains, secure velcro, silver duct tape.
a mess of wires and my arms are bound,
a strict mental patient’s prevention.
it’s too late for mistakes; my blood is
already beginning to curdle, slowing
and slowing into a jelly stop. filet open
my veins -- sweet red caviar for your dry
toast. but if i can’t touch you, if my fingers
are too tight to fit inside your love, then what
gives you the right to mutilate my body?
my muscles twitch and my eyeballs fall
out of their sockets, no glue to hold them
in. neurons misfiring, feet tapping despite
the torture; we all know i’m disintegrating,
my bones breaking down, ground into fine,
white ash. (i’d be lying if i told you i was fine.)