The problem with the air today is that it feels too thick around us
I heard someone say as I played a passerby at terminal 5 in Grand central station
Like our mouths should be tapered shut.
My eyes widened with the last words she spoke:
Like they know our bones are becoming free, and they don’t want our lungs to taste the ocean.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my charcoal boots biting into the sidewalks wrists,
I bit down on the shadow crossing my bottom lip until I tasted blood.
I played a passerby, because they wouldn’t understand why the texture of my hands felt so red, or why my hair smelled of the cigarettes you told my father were yours, or why my shoulders are sinking into the silver skin around my knees;
I played a passerby,
Because I didn’t understand, why the air today felt so thick around us, or why my stomach has a thousand wasps dancing inside of it, everytime I have to open my mouth.
I played a passerby, so that I could say everything I feel inside of me,
without saying it lives in me,
So that I could hear my thoughts through everyone else’s throat;
but my own.


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