I can sit here. solid and still. soft as volcanoes. magma erupting from within but still as a lion waiting for a moment to strike. the patient immobility. statuesque. I let each word wash over me like an escalating thunderstorm. tender and brutal. each syllable a little more treacherous than the last until there are none left to speak— only the welcoming relief of silence. natural disasters come to mind. the heavy softness of the situation. the doughy snow outside. soft soft. the whoosh of cars operating within their own timelines. back to their lovers. faster. away from their lovers.
goosebumps like tiny mountains. the hardest paths to climb. entrapped by hook eyes. heavy eyes. I dare not lean over in fear of the glue slowly seeping from my cheek landing on your thighs. my lovers playfully name me lap princess. lip nymph. an inexplicable well of thunder. the holiness of steady rumbles. never-ending needy storm clavicles unfurling themselves. unruly at these raw routines. my bones are sewn together with electric wire and your words— wet knives cutting and destroying me.