Poetry

My dry lips feel like they’re sewn together

When did this happen?

I once was so full.

Words are a gift, please use them sparingly

Meaningful ones, especially

Don’t worry ‘bout words like ‘fuck’, ‘yeah’, and ‘I know’

We’re all over those.

Save the special ones though.

Spew em, oh, sing em, oh, puke em, oh, scream em,

Send them all whirling about,

Running into people you don’t care about,

Is that what you want? Is that what you want?

Throw them at the pavement outside in the rain as an old woman watches you retching in pain—is that what you want?

Is that what you want?

Whisper them loud at a stranger you found at a bar in this new scary town, and when he offers you something, back out and say nothing of what you were talking about,

Is that what you want, huh? Is that what you want?

Scream them at the sky on a bridge way up high in your hometown until you have nothing else left

And your throat is all empty and it hurts your chest

And fuck all the rest.

And fuck all the rest

Of the words.

You’ve said them all to everyone that you can think of.

You’ve run yourself dry, love.

You picked out the needle,

Disinfected your skin,

You tied off the thread,

And you pushed it right in.

You’ve sewn yourself shut

By not shutting up,

And getting that thread out is going to need luck.

Good luck.