Literature
this skin is a temporary home
there's something
in your teeth.
or is it caught inside your throat, cutting
through breath like butter
sinking {in sync} through flesh?
it tastes like
vomit.
it tastes like
stars.
quick, censor yourself;
you know
how it feels. you, october girl, you
understand
even if that understanding is knitted out of
fault lines and sewn out of
a tanglecircuit
of paranoia and
miscommunications, oh, you crying, dying, breaking thing
"yeah, but it's like… how do you
know?" she says, and
you don't know how to tell her, you
sink {in sync} before the words can tumble
out, and they'd probably just
get lost, anyhow
counting out of binary, you're