The hole in the back of my mouth feels like a cavern, something you could hide a runaway in, someplace you could lose the enterance to.
The salad bowl on the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet is dark blue and reminds me to open a window in the middle of the night when my jaw is on the floor and I can't swallow on my side.
The freezer is now my friend. I want to shove my whole head in the gap between the frozen peas and ice cream, bring a blanket with me and sleep there, wake only when the week-long promise of healing arrives.
There is always time in the morning between galaxies and orange juice.
If you had a jar with a lid you would try to save it, give it to the girl with the pressed lips and the eyes that crinkle.
You’re not sure what to make of half-built cities except that when they haunt you in your dreams the streets overflow with possibility and the rooftop ridgelines are hunched, bent at the hip, against the skyline.
You’re still soft in the middle: both raw and burnt and never giving up.