A note to my writer self:

You will come again, full-fleshed and sleek-tongued to speak. There is space for you here, in my head, in my heart caged in bone. Your voice will carry, your mouth wet and round with words that ring as crisp as ice cracking. You will taste as fresh as falling snow on my tounge, dry and sour now with sleeplessness.

Ouroboros: swallow, grow. I will hold my tongue for you, that tense muscle. Together we will tender even this winter.

 

If not, I’ll just say motherfucker and fuck a lot.

And I think I might need to give a blow job, or drink something cool.

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