its not their swollen hands
that are multicolored raw
open layered skin like scales
it is not their eyes, that blink repeatedly
that pulse when they are looking at things they
hate and desire.
the deep brown with no pupil
focused all on their prey.
its not their stories, their reps
stolen in the night
little glass pipes eroding under the seat
babies with goop in their eyes and mouths
or the smoke that will flush the windows.
pockets that hold knives in convenient stores
and the hot oiled pans
thrown in the kitchen
the loudness
the pushiness upon floorboards
that give.
it’s the sound of their words.
unlaced by quick to whip.
desparate sound that comes out
fast & nonsensical.
stubborn defenses
behind them
wrap around and around like veins
until I forget who I am.
its their tone that will eat me.
the energy of a summer storm
behind each mumbled word.
ready to tear off roofs.
wash over my borders
it’s the way they talk to me
like I am younger than them
and I believe it
when I sink in my leather chair
behind the old desk
which counts as no barrier because
their words
are falling in the drawers, all over my shoulders.
its their words and the tails behind them.
that embarrass me.
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