Mar 20

Skull Shells

My head is a hole
and you are the parasite. 
You have become the wind
that pulls, pulls and refuses to push.  

You are the sky that never opens
willingly into anyone's mouth, especially not those who wait.

There is a lone car on the empty highway
behind my house at midnight,
driving at full blast, blurring colors and sounds
onto the patient asphalt. 
I want to chase after it. 

No matter
how much salt I swallow
while holding my eyelids open
with my thumb
there is never enough to fill my stomach. 

We are all just layered words,
waiting to be cracked open
in the morning
like an egg spilled haphazardly on the kitchen tile. 

I refuse to be forgotten. 
I refuse to be squeezed down the bathtub drain like greywater.