“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.