This winter, I find myself raw,
chapped and tender like the skin
of my over-chewed bottom lip.
My mouth is always the one
that takes the most damage.
I catch myself on my front two teeth,
both with cracks on the side
from where my face kissed
the floors of roller skating rinks
and the frame of my grandparents' bed.
The help me bite my tongue
in moments of assurance
and bite my lip
when I falter under the weight
of my own name.
I am not a carnivore, nor someone
who wants to take you in,
and scrape the meat from your bones.
I'm a woman, with pink gums
and a sharp tongue that stabs me
in the roof of my mouth
and hurts me more than any of the hands
that have ever struck my face.
It's not because I'm weak or submissive,
I'm callow still,
constantly falling in love with
every person I touch,
not yet cultivated enough
to give them the words
I once promised.
Winters are always about peeling skin from your mouth and writing poetry.
