Kite Strings

the truth of flesh is that it wears us. a foul costume we are powerless to remove. 

all its dirty cloaks and bright red capes. just pauses in our fever. . 

the promise of touch is that we can be whole for someone else.

it burns.

a rope cinched much too taut. 

we  tear the arms off of all those paper dolls. determined to sever that connection.

but what we're left with is just a pile of garbage we're unable to discard.