chasing the soul (novapsyche) wrote in cafe_brighid,
chasing the soul

Confession #6

Fly with me, fly by me,
I don't care. Take the tongue
from my mouth, fill me
with aerosol lucidity. My tongue

doesn't matter. A hummingbird
will fill my throat and hover
where my voice once stood, heard
but not heard, drawn yet uncovered.


The sun frets. I tear
at my frayed shirt, aroused
by the raggedness there.

I am a stranger to water.
My tongue is boundless, my mouth
is false shelter. I lick the cloud,
the coming storm. I pick
at my flagging skin. What
a human shirt! What monstrosity!
I swallow an oasis of dirt.
I strip to my bones. The hummingbirds
nest in my organs. They seek the drought.


I lap at my lips. There is water there,
below my nose, such a strange
reservoir, the channel of curved skin,

the tongue settling there like a raft.
There is a drink of self, a bleed
of sweat, an anguished spot of rain

drenching the cheeks. The sun isn't real.
The sky retreats, and the hummingbirds
with it, revealing a mouth of sand.
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