the lump in my throat isn't always a poem


a man with a scruffy beard and ice-blue eyes once told me:

when we love, we get angry when we are not loved the same way.


i wonder if he saw the hint of indignation,

the fragments of promises still swimming in my irises.


i want him to know that my smile still stutters across sentences,

that even though i haven't broken yet, i'm pretty damn close.


i want to ask him:


if an avalanche occurs when no one is looking,

will there still be a feeling of panic?


what happens to the leaves on apple trees?


if the piano is out of tune,

why do we bother dancing in the first place?


there is this lump in my throat that has not yet translated into a poem.

i think it’s stuck there for good.


the human body cannot discard vitalities;

it is not designed to expel emotional things.


as he undressed me for the third time that night,

i tried to imagine what the moon tasted like.


my tongue kept clawing its way to the back of my mouth.

i enjoyed it too much.


now, his hands find themselves curled into fists

against concrete, pounding, a war-like drum.


my hands find themselves curled around tea cups and loose change,

offering my throat to anyone who can pull him out of it.


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