Anti-numb

I am hypersensitive to the world.

Nerve endings tingle.

Each I-Love-You stings

somewhere below the surface,

skin untouched, chaste.

My reflection is bruised and shivering.

I pay no attention.

There is no reality, no true existence

outside of my head.

Inside I can’t remember

how I’d painted my back

blue and yellow and purple.

I cannot feel the cold,

the wind or the rain.

So the mirror is lying.

I burn up; simultaneously

combusting in my brain

and freezing in my heart.

The thermometer flashes temperate.

Thirty seven degrees Celsius.

It must be broken.

I could see you laid beside me,

smell your shampoo.

I didn’t feel a thing.

So you are a ghost then.