The Nightmare Touches Its Forehead to My Lips

The Nightmare Touches Its Forehead to My Lips

The Nightmare Touches Its Forehead to My Lips


The sky feels like a k-pin
doused with some other shit that’ll kill you—
infectious harp.
The space between language—
shard of porcelain
from the dictator’s house.
Looking back—
so many lives like veils undressed
in the sullen dark.
Names etched on my heart.
Be grateful, the whole future isn’t a skull—
blue silk in the grey matter
like water from sand.

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