Roadkill

The parts of me that died still hold me, put me in trances of grief in vacant embraces.

Roadkill, softest to the touch, the tail a silent wing, dances. Untouched, unaltered, still the same. The rest comforted by heavy rubber, recreated, digested. 

I envision myself in a similar sense, free to the wind, spilled like water, torn apart and stuck onto a realm I’m not able to unravel.  

Nor can it grasp me. 

Misaligned and misshapen by its hands, tender and untranslated to all who pass by. 

Touched, but not felt where I ooze, uninviting in my deepest core.