There’s a bathtub trapping ambient noise on the second floor of your house. I wake with headaches and feathers trapped in my hair and you on the tip of my tongue with something angry caged in my lungs. In the basement, a boot string mouse wonders if his paws can scuttle faster than the clasp smash of a cold steel trap. Find me lying in the hallways, taking mouthfuls of wax apples, pantomiming two mountains and a stream with my stuttering fingers. When I’m hung over, my dreams are less fantastical love stories to Christmas fox and her infinite arms or telling off bull snoozers in New Orleans and eating vampire crawfish on mountaintops of broken glass or even my exploded torso devouring the minotaur surgeons. They’re more realistic and terrifying, they blend and blur with the previous night like a drug store disposable camera double exposed. Did my voice reach your sleepy ears? Did I explain how I used to sit hunched over, hugging my shins like a summer hedge while digging my front teeth into my knees? How lost I am on every drive home. How touching your thighs makes me want to believe in a god, how mercy means less older brothers vicious Indian burns and more the soft squeeze of your fingers, our mouths tangled in quiet secrets. Because if so, you’ll find me as the summer hedge, fingers crossed that my teeth and knees are strong enough to hide for a little while longer.
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