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I’m tired of losing words inside my mouth, the syllables I wanted to trace onto your tongue pinch my raw throat as I swallow them instead
(Your shoulders are strong, but my vocal cords tremble like your knuckles; and the slip of the bedspread cracks like a gunshot, pierces the amiable lamplight and sends a shadow to my teeth so I can inhale the taste of metal)
Sandpaper chisels away at the exterior of my mind; but the chips crumble and plummet, falling into the salt of my bitten lip, sliding nicely into the symmetry of my rose-glass poker face
(I’m losing my grip, but we smile so convincingly, drowning out the reflection in my sleepless eyes, your caffeinated mind; drowning out the tumultuous sea that we’ve been drowning ourselves in for weeks)
And I have my fingertips, still smooth, to write stories on your collarbones-but you reach for another euphemism, and the ripple of muscle from neck to arms scatters my sentences across your skin, buried underneath your freckles
(The scratches hurt, until I’m painting with blood, but the flesh is so warm and I’m afraid to blink with your breath caught in my eyelashes like this, so we’ll call them branches and pretend that we are free underneath the dying leaves)
I’m wide awake without the second hand, but my jaw is caught in the ridges of a broken clock, two days dreaming without the sunlight. I know that my hands are too small for the pages I’ve filled with words about unsaid words, about slightly parted lips tasting slowly unraveling thoughts
(You’re talking into your pillow, talking soft. It’s snowing through the cream-colored ceiling into this windowless room, snowing white on white, white on white lies and white mugs filled with black coffee, and it’s snowing white on a white cigarette to blow white smoke into your pillow talk curls. Underneath our bleached sky, I wanted my exhales to inhabit your identity- I wish you wouldn’t blink)
And I wish I liked the sound of you, being woven into my spoken web, as much as I like look of black spider words knitting themselves together onto a lined page, but I’m still anticipating morning with each tired limb
(I’d bet that you’re a good listener when the screams dress themselves as whispers. I’d like to roll up my sleeves and pull down my façade instead)




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