White to Ashes

The first time I touched a cotton ball,
I noticed that it was soft, delicate.
The cotton threads clung slightly
to the grooves of my fingerprints,
as if someone were raking their nails
across a chalkboard without making any sound.
But the longer I caressed the cotton ball,
the less I could feel it.
Instead, my finger seemed to get heavier and heavier
as if someone were placing a tiny ball of lead
on my finger with each stroke.
The weight eventually became so great
that I could no longer lift my finger.
I can feel a cotton ball once,
but not a thousand times, not a million times.
And it’s a good idea not to try.
It’s a slow, creeping form of self-murder,
And there is no unmurder.