“Showering down knives and needles and razorblades.” -Kurt Vonnegut
The night sky is empty
save for the jagged
edges of long-past stars.
The entirety of this place,
this sky, rests in the cavern
of my mouth. I chew on it
listlessly. Not because I want
to, but because it is there. And
rather than spit it out: I clamp
down. I let the stars make
the fleshiness of my tongue
ragged, as they cut
constellations into my inner
cheeks, loosening up teeth.
I allow this to happen,
so I don’t have to speak.
