Learning How to Spit

It’s always with the intention of breaking,
of messing up, wild night, laugh too loud
and all teeth catching spotlight.
Bad milk in the back of the fridge
and nights where you can’t find your hands for his.
Him, this nameless thunderburst,
the soul residing in ‘someday‘, caught
on the sharp edge of your ending,
your becoming,
and the kind of mystery you know he’ll bring.

The intention of a bite, two,
your throat the tunnel of a train, unstoppable
and everywhere at once. Someday
I’ll be the girl who stays out too late,
wanders into lamplight, sparks like flame
and finally says ‘Yes‘. Yes. Yes isn’t
something I’ve allowed myself, lately,
with my hands this soft,
watching bluebottles dance themselves
to death by the window.

I will be heavenfire. Tomorrow
the barstool and a dark mouth, wet touch
to the power outlet, divine, you know.
My words will move like butane, lick of promise,
I’ll watch as they ignite boys’ match-heads
and burst into smoke.
But first I’ll answer a question without
sewing my own teeth together;
light means soul, means mind, means talk,
you know, get over it.


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