My mouth is a magpie. I collect syllables like shiny things and scream them into soup.
Alphabet in disarray. Syntax on fire. Verbs wearing fishnets.
I said please but it came out pyre. I said love but it burned at both ends and tasted like lightning bugs smothered in saran wrap.
This isn’t poetry. It’s a word riot. A sentence rebellion. A grammar glitch in God’s inbox.
I built a language out of side-eyes and stutters, called it flinchlish. Conjugated heartbreak like it was Spanish. (I hurt, you hurt, we— don’t talk about that anymore.)
Sometimes I write elegies in emojis. Sometimes I tongue-twist psalms into punchlines. Sometimes I just scream into Google Docs until it autocorrects sorry to spine.
My voice is a thesaurus spun too fast in a washing machine. Everything comes out wrinkled, wet, a little more mine.
This one speaks in tongues and sarcasm. For when holiness and heartbreak start sounding the same. For when your mouth becomes a ritual and your pain starts sermonizing itself. Written mid-exorcism. Served with a side of grime.