i bite juice and spit out fruits
my teeth are aching red and i lock the doors because
i live in the year before i was born,

the walls buzz as
i think in numbers and speak in jumbled-up letters.

my lemon sour tears stain my pillow cases
as i spin many more times than i can handle
and think of love around the corner of streets in places
i've never breathed the air in.

today my hair is made out of falling snow that
melts at the slightest touch and shrines
of stacked up golden coins that burn up
rolled-up cigars that
make me

smell like coconut oil skin and there are ants crawling
on my sugar-cube-shoulders, which
is nice because normally they are dry metal and flashes of bone but
now i inhale wafts of bees and beach as
honey drips down from my lashes, which
causes my eyes to see colours
not present.

i am more sincere when i drink
and my little brother smashed the angry mirror above the sink
with
his purple fist after daddy disappeared in dense mist.

i place a plaster on his pinky finger and sing
an unreleased song that makes

my stomach growl like our washing machine and
after today,
i cover myself in feathers
instead of
the seven-years-of-misfortune-shards that covered half of my cold,
laminated floor
for four weeks.