Therapeutic Touch
Sharp, serrated, pointed kitchen knife
Held steady and with care
As the pain, if cut, would most certainly sear
Smooth, cold, aluminium towel rail
Clasped within my anxious hands
As into the mirror I hesitate, then peer
Slender, dry, crisp cigarette
Rolled between my numb finger tips
It's addictive toxins; I should, but do not fear
Beaneath my bare, tired feet
Confirms to me I'm real, that I'm actually here
Prickly, yet soft, scotch pine needles
Dance, tickling, through my fingers
Inviting me to breathe in their scent, both fresh and clear
Debbie Razey 2014
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