She touches me and pulls away
as if my skin is rotting flesh,
littered with whirring,
My skin, dark as the shroud
that invades my bedroom every night
that once led to soaked sheets
and parental roars.
Her skin, white as the fresh milk
I drank every morning as a child,
unburned by blemishes that riddle mine.
Every time my quiet brown eyes
stare at her fierce, bright blues I utter,