I’m not always sure whose mouth it is

my throat is a mass grave and I’m not sorry

i want to eat a knife blade from the corner of your smile

your forearm across my windpipe, sepia fever dream, stained the color of the crook of your elbow

i stopped using straws to drink when I realized I’d keep drowning in empty paper coffee sleeves

the liquid bites my tongue, sends me tumbling through a landslide to 2018, and I reach down my waist band sweating in a too familiar parking lot

i ache against my palm

shift my mouth against a breath that’s not there

gulp down night air

wonder when the sun began to set this quick