20 Something
We’re stuck in time,
rotting feet with mistakes to
carry. Tongues twist beyond
repair, and our mouths are
held hostage. Saliva drips over
lips unyielded—
I remember that I forgot sound,
like when a clock strikes time and
the days move on.
In Regards to the Lithosphere
Evening glow seeps through
the cracks in plate boundaries,
between our broken bedroom
blinds. He said he wants to plot
my flaws with his fingertips,
To t e a c h
m e h o w
t o d r a w
We stumble over things that
shatter silence, like heavy bre-
athing, and brushing sheets with
skin. He said he wants to study the
way that heat makes my body swell,
To m a p m e
t o p o g r a-
p h i c a l l y