Maybe I am a library

It seems to me that all I have left are aching words
that spill from my aching hands
Handwritten script or text typed feverishly
I have bad circulation so my fingers are always either
slightly numb with cold
or palms sweaty, clammy, gross
My joints hurt, they always hurt
wish my life wasn’t anchored in tactility
but it’s all I live for
touch and sound touching my soul
Sadness is the only thing I can rely on
never lets me down, never freezes me out
listens and responds
Always lets me write of it
Quill morphing between feather and knife
eeny meeny miny moe
what shall stroke my skin today?
Blades slice deep, I always wanted stitches
but words cut deeper still
and there is no medical procedure brilliant enough
to save the internal bleeding they cause
It seems to me that all I have left are letters
vowels rounded, consonants hard
trying to connect on a verbal level

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