He hides between cold stares
and nonchalant contortions of face
Pretends if you plunged your best kitchen knife
into his flesh
he wouldn’t feel the skin tear
He convinces himself
his heartbeat doesn’t crash against his eardrums
He doesn’t feel the spark
swirling up his spine
when his fingers touch hers
He used to declare his emotions to the world
until this thing called growing up
hit him like a tsunami
and he could feel the crushed villages and broken houses
inside of him
The suffering consumed him like fire burns ash
And he never liked the smell of smoke
So he decided to camp out in the underground
of his soul
beneath first memories and pigments of a dusty heart
Tucked joy and sorrow into his polished briefcase
and closed it shut
He fell asleep between muscles and nerves
and tried to never wake up
Pretended he didn’t feel the forces of the world
As if there were no gravity
But all actions have gravitation
and as much as he calls himself
The Underground Man
He can never forget how to feel.
