my tongue rubs onto the back of my teeth
the infinitely many words it holds for you
and for your eyes
and the holes they leave in me
when they light glances against my skin
like horse-hair brushes,
bristles replaced with steel wool.
if i had stuttered out only half my words,
in my own voice, splitting silence,
while my own sharp eyes parried
your's and their warning glances,
would your heart have skipped or dropped or hardened
or felt a thing at all?
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