Fool Proof 125
Your name is One More
late night glass and avalanching priorities
like waiting for the better
between ‘please stop’
and ‘leave me the hell alone’.
Winter winds are not
breaths you are willing to claim
and that sticky wood beneath trembling fingers
might know your real name
the things you’re trying to whisk away -
that makes you no less responsible for their actions.
and you’ve monsters on your skin
that you are unsure how to bridal;
you are a gas line
a missing denominator
a fraction unsolvable
Weather in your blood
fizzing underneath the surface
landmines bottled in your chest.
You are fool proof at 125
when daylight catches amber
sliding down your throat.
This world is silhouetted in black
while you ride high on elevated transparency
Shake a new hand
stand somewhat straight
‘Hello, my name is One More
Sorry I’m late’