In this instance I am a woman. I wear pants and a mustache.
If I am to be boxed I will choose within which container I place all of my tendrils.
I am larva when I am need teeth. I bite till my tooth comes out and still after.
I bite and all my teeth fall out and I am gum skin. My decay leads to my thruth.
I am guilty of not framing it correctly; oh if I knew the screeching liquid.
Oh if I knew where the hot skin bent and furrowed and cowered after me when I lock teeth.
If I knew how the liquid cum so correctly as such definition define my truth. I cannot
correctly, correctly. I cannot cum your soupy liquid, I would rather not try after it. Pursing,
lipping, shatter teeth hiccuping a collective truth I accept as my own rot.
I am not alive teeth! I am not me when I enter you, liquid! I am not felt after! I am not truth!
I am not the comfort of skin on skin. I cannot show you how the loose eyes wander in roots
too much to suffer after. How the lack leaves me comforted in teeth. How it sits deeper
than my fake skin, in no need of my liquid.
What do I need after? What am I calling skin for? When do the teeth fall for lack of truth in my
lax liquid? Define me correctly?
The teeth escape in the skin of the question. The truth of the skin smells. The liquid smells.
My truth is choosing not to have it.