Personne ne m'aime et j'ai les mains froides
Danna Shulman

I've been there too, you know.
It's the end of it all, and by that I mean inevitable
to have cold hands.

(e.g. When did you die? the inquiry of an ex-non-boyfriend when I
(o the audacity) sneaked my fingers into his palm
a would-be murderess slipping a drug in her victim's tea.)

Mother says my posture is bad.
Maybe that's your problem too, mr. cummings.
Imagine yourself a poet marionette, and pull the strings taut.

These days I stand tall, I bite my nails,
I wear gloves.
My hands are only cold in the early morning.

But you sir mr. cummings must remember and be thankful:
if really noone loves you
you are anyone.