Words by Brenda Warren
Your fingers knead
My might, an intrinsic sting
Just shy of pulverizing.
I dress only to hide the emptiness
Of my left breast pocket.
Old scars matted down with saliva.
Blood might not make the cannibal
But it certainly sharpens the teeth.
The smack of a puerile wind
All your excuses trampled
Into the dirt and once planted
I wait for the truth to begin.
There’s a cocoon within us
That holds the other fast.
The drive is long
Strings of conversations
Plaiting the bridge of our smiles.
This is a trip that never ends,
A club to the back of the head
Knocking the breath free
One rampage away from yesterday
We’ll kill each other, we always do.