Do you ever feel your hand cinching up the paper, your knuckles are white, and you have the urge to swallow the words down your throat only for them to spew back out of your mouth with fire on their edges from the overflowing ashtray gone viral sitting next to him while he tapped at the keys hoping this page would carry some meaning, some worth larger than the pile of
discarded justice,
discarded wisdom,
discarded worth,
discarded youth
Do you ever let the curls on the side of your mouth point due north after you found a nakedness behind a sentence and you know they can see you now like all the others with their white knuckles, blistered hands, fiery eyes, and bruised knees bowing to the pile of un-cinched papers lying beside their empty ashtray next to a bottle capable of doing your self deprecation for you
but -stop
Stop looking in the mirror and just let the curls lift while they stare