Sweet Not Saccharine, Right? Poem by Lydia Johnson

a forest green desperation
trapped in a film of
strangers fingerprints.
this disease called need
infects the better parts of me
(infects the bitter parts of me)
a snowstorm of glances
and soft touches (by way of harsh fingers)
eclipse the wound for
2 feather fragile moments.
a lifetime of chapped lips and avoidance.
A lifetime of slowly getting backed
into one small corner.
wild eyes roll in an
underfed head,
and continue the mad search
For personal perfection,
the end that never comes.
That foreign word 'home' slides past
Their lips and they never notice,
But each time I attempt to say it
It catches on the
Tip of my tongue and falls to the
Ground like that clumsy girl
that I lost winters ago,
And always, I scoop it up
and carry it with me
Hoping that if I practice enough
One day I can say it
Without falling.