there’s comfort in not touching—
disquiet dissonance rattling doors
locked from within.
arms reaching through televisions,
eyes seeking from newspapers:
every bite tastes sweeter
when the fruit is stolen.
i count the dead
& open my drawer,
carefully sticking coins inside my piggy bank.
comes with a price someone else is paying.
when the do-gooders come looking
for warmth, i’ll break my bank
name it yours.
everything we touch is meant to die
& everything alive is not ours.