you are my phantom limb
obviously missing, yet
twitching at the bone
I go to scratch and
I brush through you

foggy, dissipating, clean
precision, cauterization
and yet I keep on picking,
that a new one will sprout
if I keep digging

but scabs aren’t forgiving
they either spout a mocking
trickle of blood to insult
or reveal baby raw skin
hot pink and tender

sure prosthetics look great
all the models you can choose
can grab, can feed, can pull
off shirt sleeves, but they can’t,
won’t feel like mine, like you

–a poem I scribbled in the spine of my summer school notebook