Plastic mouth
My mouth is a field of strangled words, swallowed down so far beneath my ribcage, in case they ever came spilling out over my splintered lips
the next time I opened them to rid my throat of whatevers on the surface.
My limbs are made of star seeds, particles of the universe wrapped around my every bone– you’d think I would feel at home by now.
And I was out in the night dancing with the wolves shadows, when the moon had eaten me alive.
I sat glowing upon this world I once knew;
I’ve forgotten all your names since I was last here.
But I remember your blue skin
and the way your breath smelled like wildflowers,
I remember your fragile hands and the way your bones sounded as if they belonged inside of my own body, whenever our figures intertwined.
Your mouth was a field of open words, forcing mine to come spilling out all over your skin–
Your mouth was made of copper, I still feel your silver breath on my shoulders.
My world was made of plastic, you were the only thing that was real.
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