She sings through my mouth,
and my mouth is a brackish lake
teeming with the lust of the tropics.
Only this time, I’m catastrophic,
my tics have taken on
the token qualities of a smoking gun.
One day shouting over another’s hair.
It’s fulfilling to care. It’s a travesty,
but it’s the air breathed through light.
Not her fight, but mine, or
the spine of a snail. I am not my ailments,
nor are my ailments pride.