They said it was easier to do with eyes
shut, lips closed, but your mouth is
a wound, all red and shining.
If I pretend that nothing's wrong, will you ask me anyway?
The moon is round and cancerous
tonight, a tumor hanging from the sky.
Patiently, I rub
my mouth, my wound;
corners drawn smirking,
waiting for the clouds to cover.
I wrote a letter to
you, sitting in the cold.
I sent it through whispers,
short breaths, visible like
smoke escaping.
If I pretend that nothing's wrong, will you ask me anyway?
I feel like a nuisance, so I keep my mouth
shut.
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