Glue

I can only move slowly

like my limbs are stuck in place

and as time passed and I grew older and colder in my heart,

I became the glue that stuck me there in the first place.

The glue that was spread across the edges of a bank white page,

I became its sticky form

smooth in some place and bumpy in others I would hold together their hands

unifying them in a way that separated myself.

I am the open glue that people forget about

without a lid and a safety blanket I dry out quickly

and so my misery spikes when the next person comes along to use me

and then have the audacity to moan about how I’ve dried.

I am the glue that people poke with scissors just to leave a mark

they carve their initials into my skin with rough caresses that hurt so much

then they smooth over the bumpy letters and begin again

their grubby hands clutching at my quivering side, a sense of ownership about them.

But they don’t own me,

not now

not ever

I’ll be your glue, fine,

but only

God damn only

if you’ll be mine.