Remote

Remote

I’m touched
again and again
as fat pads of fingers hover over my tattoos,
rub them away with lubricant,
with repetitive,
non-consentual
use.
I scream,
sometimes,
silent, voiceless.
My small, red beam emitting,
alarming them
to me
inside
as my outsides
are pushed deep
inside and
pop
out,
over
and over.
I’m touched
unless the evening
of the battery replacement,
I fall down the side of a sofa,
starved of light and trapped,
they leave the house unexpectedly
for a week,
perhaps two,
or lastly,
I short-circuit over this one,
I’m added to a skip
- drowning in my brothers, my sisters,
leaking acid on each other,
bleeding from our wounds,
wearing what is left of our tattoos as
souvenirs.
I am touched
in the most remote of ways.


Word count: 130