Synesthesia

by on February 13, 2018 :: 0 comments

Sobriety drags its freshly-done nails down
an orange chalkboard, cankering my gums,

leaves its motor running outside my two a.m.
window, puffing diesel through the cracks.

All day long, people’s eyes slide away,
silence chafing like wet wool, clinging

to my tongue with a spoiled milk curdle.
Color my sighs black. Yogic breathing

pales them charcoal. They throb
like sick nerves beneath an ibuprofen

blanket. My keening jags bilious. With
a whiff of mildew, I ex off the third day.

editors note: Oof! Makes one day at a time so hard to count. - mh clay

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