i can't even talk,
like the movements could
liquefy my only thoughts
for some sort of evaluation
of how time can
sprint at full velocity to reach
nothing at all and
how minutes can drag more
than that of lips against
cigarettes that hold
messages.
i can't talk,
yet i feel with my eyes,
like i have microscopic nerves
flowing in my vision,
and only i can formulate
the ***** words on the
clothes line in the
backyard.
i know where my laundry has been,
but i'm not sure if you do.
i can't talk,
this phase has boiled my
letters on the stove,
in which you stir it up
and pretend that this tastes
like tea.
i can't talk,
especially when referred as
that one girl who once
forgot her morals
and got lucky
that one time.
i forgot to talk,
when i was perched
up on telephone wires
like birds who have
nowhere else to go,
and i wanted to
scream
to say i finally could
hear myself.

i guess that's why public speaking isn't my thing.