Pins and Needles

I have this feeling in my fingers.

A burning at the base;
like whatever I touch
will turn into flames,

and ashes, and dust.

It is not creative, I cannot make the flames,
it is destruction, and I realise
that pain is but a synonym

of something entirely other.

Sometimes I yearn to make a deal;
to trade these hands for hooks,

like the fairy tales of childhood.

So I could touch more;
and feel less.

But the doctor simply tells me:

‘It is but pins and needles.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.’