Is it that I am unfit for contact, perhaps love even?

I have been wincing at the sunshine
and turning my back toward the heat
I feel unworthy of it’s nourishment
as too undeserving of h2o or just plain o
for breathing comes easily to those divinely oblivious
mine is laboured yet urgent
I require apparatus I do not possess
so I may tap, tap, tap my toes and dance
over the crest of certain annihilation
into some abhorrent cloud of depression
and fight that thick, confabulated fog
Could you cosset me?
Treat me with adoration
Work me a pedestal from rich timber
place me with your strong hands upon it
tell me sweet nothings and
kiss me until I deserve sunshine once more

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