They asked me to become something louder, something less childlike, something more of what isn’t, between the cracks of what is. I told them I had fire between my teeth, I warned them, this time, before I spoke. I don’t know where this is coming from, I said. The last time I felt this color inside my chest it tasted like whiskey and your left over nightmares, that stuck in the cracks of your lips. I don’t know where this is all coming from. You were a sculpture, my hands, a hammer– if I hadn’t told them know breakable you were, they may not have shattered you like that. You are but the sunset that endlessly rests beneath the earths palms; still I keep you like tomorrow, in the back of my throat.


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Cory Garcia
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