Lucinda J Kinsinger

holding hands

Skin on Skin

He’s not angel.

Not demon.

Just flesh.

 

I thought I would come to know 

someone different: a hero perhaps.

In my mad moments,

someone inferior:

dumber,

meaner,

more annoyed.

 

Turns out he’s made of the same substance I am.

Wrong sometimes.

Right sometimes.

Always best when he’s not aware of it.

 

In the dark he breathes, sleeping,

hip pressed against mine.

I think of every person I have known:

the Pinterest ones, 

the Pollyanna ones, 

those who said mean things behind my back, 

her. She was like me all along.

 

Not angel.

Not demon.

Just flesh. 

***

Photo by amoon ra on Unsplash.

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