Omer
Been slapping my chest as a threat, it’s echo reaching for the twining of muscles all wet within my back. Been Barking. Been sizing you up with a piece of straw between my teeth. Been standing on my tiptoes so his chin touches my mine. Been sitting on the paradox of tolerance, worried about the crucible of my needs and the way it cracks itself across my wingspan. Been asking my dreams why they aren’t more delicate, sweeter-sauced against my gums. Been hearing my grief instead of sucking on it. Straw root and cotton tips. Been pressing my dirty little thumb into the soil to leave all my dirty little secrets there.
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Been snapping my suspenders and saying shit like “feed Me”.
Been getting taller again. Been getting bigger.
