i write endlessly about things i could
care less about like the recurring
themes of obedience and rebellion in
Shakespearean plays, but i’m anxious
and fidgety and restless and on the edge
in my attempts to write about how you
only smiled with your mouth shut.
the first time we spoke you said it’s
ridiculous people cared i gave myself
a bad haircut, that i flow like water and
my external body is nothing but a
container, a juice box.
what truths would i have been let into
if i hadn’t cut you off every time you
looked so sour like you’re choking on
i laid down on a rooftop and stargazed,
pearls receding the navy sky tinged
with grey dim shapes and a half
visceral memory of feeling small around
you, when you said my container
sometimes gets in the way when you
try to get closer to the fluid.
lately i’ve been tracing the recollections
i hid within my sinew out of fear.
i rolled the fright and agitation and
the remnant of your essence along with
tobacco’s pink sweet honey scented flowers
and smoked them, but the aftertaste was