Soft, fuzzy man —
no hard edge to him,
nothing like a stone ledge

or anything like one —
he’s borne along on a wave
of softness, no edge to speak of;

he wonders at those who have one.
He can’t imagine a man without one
like him, like himself.

Ashamed of himself, he crawls
into his soft house, into
his fuzzy abode; wishes

he knew a diamond solely
to appreciate how it might cut him.
He longs for blood to spurt from

some outlet he has just now
discovered in himself. He longs
for his life to end that way

but not so soon, not so quickly as that.
Picks up his gentle blanket. This will do,
he thinks through his tears.

How much he wants to go there
is unfathomable at best, but
the focus is sharp on the future.

For now, anyway. Instead he will cuddle
in the warmth of the burrow and dream,
fuzzy and warm, of what could be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T