For our birthdays, we exchanged socks like promises: I’ll protect you if you protect me. But we hated confinement, so often, we shed our socks and raced through hallways, puddles, rivers— more than common ground. We broke free of simplicity—spilled over walls like nail polish, screamed like firing guns, and ate our fill of rainclouds. For your birthday, I wear your socks, slip, fall, and think: I’ll get up for you if yo
Stories hitch in sore necks, climb our throats, and yank wisdom from tired gums—clammy stomachs tumbling gems. Week one of six—knitting infinity with tongues. Between inflated cheeks and lost teeth, we choke ourselves with tears, spit on paper and knotted gauze. I’m not strong enough to hold the holy books we’ve written— sprinkled with fingernails— or swallow violet sediment. Ink glistens like pavement in the pupils of twelve parched eyes, begging— how will we survive?
I miss the shadows that spin past eyelids, onto the floor, and legs sprouting like leaves from blanketed branches.
I miss feeling your wounds heal under my mouth. I miss the coils of coalish petals you left on my pillowcase.
I miss the unseen grins, minutes before sunrise. I miss sleep talk, on and off, biological alarms that sang me awake. I miss limbs against limbs, the art of the sleepless, and the blinking bruises of morning.
It’s Hell to wash the mess, to pick apart clinging wire, to accept that my body