I want to still your tongue. Under
the rasp of its catlicks in the wound,
I clench my jaw—you
had your chance to take it back. But
I know you cannot let me be; only
giving in to my silent ire
when it gets too deep. And
you cannot see the bottom of my eyes
for murkiness and sand disturbed,
for skeleton-kelp in the belly of the tide.
You try to make things clear, but
I am already
a translucent sea, and
new fish have come to rely on me.

We argue pointlessly, and you have not
come to learn that I love with
words. With your speed at negating
the slip of my tongue, I can tell that
I am still a mystery. With words you will
say sorry for later, with thoughtless
quips and the selfish kiss of
calling me hopeless—I can tell that
you have not seen
your syllables stamping down on me—
like typewriter-keys on ribbons
of gleaming skin. For that
is my weak, open page of a heart.
And you are pressing
too hard.