Evocation is something lost on the tip of a tail, the tiger trapped; conditioned away from who I am, craving thunder, the metallic sting, the rush through my chewed-up core.
The straight talk. Scraped residue, sticky and black, shaken from fingers before stains, before the smell putrefies, aches of slurped-up sweet talk, cherry chapstick gelato on spoon, the fizzy, fizzy backwash of neon-pink soda down the drain. (Way too sweet to be refreshing.)
Maybe if I wait long enough, what drips from my mouth will moisten someone else’s crumbs; the fabrication, the manipulation of use.
I kissed him with my eyes closed and opened them to truth. That. Is worth dying for.
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