Grab my hips. What’s the worst that can happen?
I’ll give you a book deal, kid. I’ll win the lotto for you and back.
People are smug. No, not you. These are the people who roll R’s convincingly and make you feel blessedly connected by their cultural appropriations and worthless degrees.
Those people jar bones for the winter: cheekbones, hipbones, ankle bones.
Me, I don’t prep for the winter. Not anymore. It’s hot.
I speak the truth and send out so many mixed messages my tongue’s swollen.
And these days, well, what does your tongue feel like, anyway? A sandbag of emotion? Maybe a heartless disaster or a godless pandemic? I imagine a heavy zephyr, falling and rotting out from my lips.
These days it’s been difficult to lick my lips.
All of these days you’ve been all out of proportion. I’ve been melting you into heartbreak; I have been shaping you into a waxy metaphor.
You were here and back, long gone before we met, on a long dirty trail of denial and fraud. You were missing in action while I was up most nights with a red pen and a xeroxed list of changes. Bit by bit, the past was edited for content and word count. Your punctuation was all wrong. You knew it.
Remember your editor threw that fit? That’s me. I’m having a fit, babe.
You never rolled your R’s. You never let your hipbone get too sharp.
And believe me when I tell you, I’ll strike your whole book down if it meant ever saying I didn’t miss you.