Your brittle calcium coated voice
slides down my throat like water,
little blue gods of poetry.
Nothing to do but fuck and fight.
There’s a run on sentence in my veins
whole flowers framing my bruises.
My bone quiet bruises
wait five miles from your medical voice,
english coastline of veins
covering my anatomy like large bodies of water.
Fuck yesterday’s fist fight
you left your apologies in poetry.
My alcoholic poetry
a blood orange coated in bruises
a history of last night’s pillow fight
catching religion in your voice.
The swallows splash in water
quiet in my dessicate veins.
Fields of goldenrod veins
make my honorary poetry
a theory of cursive water.
Leave aching vegetarian bruises
on my calloused voice
from tearing open the sun to fight.
A polaroid water fight
rolls around in my open veins
a punctuation of your raspy voice,
hospitalized my skin in poetry.
A reckless consumption of bruises
with a mint leaf in a glass water.
Soft echoes burn across the water
silver scissors in a domestic fight
running away from bruises
and mountains of veins.
My second language is poetry
giving my fingertips a muffled voice.
Empty water pleads with your broken voice,
makes me fight against pleated poetry
and pomegranate bruises tighten in my veins.