the challenge of having a body is that it can be gutted like a fisherman's catch.
you were something i had to live through AND IF THAT RINGS SOUR ON THE EARS, LET IT.
the challenge of having a body is that it knows what is bad for it but consumes anyways.
call me the dead dog on the shoulder of the highway; call me the black hole in the center of your chest; call me the girl you never got a damn thing from. call me anything, as long as you call me. the challenge of having this body is that it wants to dash itself against your sharp edges until it's red and disjointed, all type a-positive and rotted teeth: want undoes itself from the skin and denial slaps want in the face. WHEN YOUR HANDS ARE NO LONGER HANDS, YOU'RE LOSING CONTROL.
don't tell me about your nightmares or the way the moulded-out moonlight hits your pillowcase because i don't want to hear it. you want something softer, well, WE ALL HAVE DEMONS WE DON'T WANT TO SPIT OUT. the trick is to act like you don't.
and so what if the moon never goes away? so what if you have so many nightmares they won't all fit under the carpet? you get used to the sick light, the alien pressure of it. YOU GET USED TO BEING A MOUTHFUL OF TEETH, TO THE POINT THAT IT FEELS LIKE HOME.
the lies we tell
ourselves at 2am
while drunk on
five dollar wine, beers
and life.
yearning and
longing for someone
and some things
that can never be
and friends
validating
the feeling.
THE SUBTLE THRILL OF A DROP-SHOT
SO CHEERS, AND CHUG.
doves do cry when strangled;
THEY ACTUALLY SHED TEARS—
did you know?
YOU ARE READING
WISDOM TEETH
Poetrywe want a meaning where there isn't one (A/N - SOME PARTS ARE BEING REWRITTEN)
