poetry for depth



Man, my jaw is tiny

My bones they are small in there

I couldn't have lost all this weight with out having my first bouts with difficultly 

Digesting the truth

Is that tiny boned voodoo watching, name falling, horrified solider a woman 

Is she young but old but unheard of

Making her way to the kettle, afraid of tea and mugs

Man, my words are big

They never feel small

I have plenty of words that are not even laid understandably into the math

Of your hearing patterns

But I say them still

 Words that rumble and grip like ginger roots up a nose and nail polish that won't give up

I cried so hard that my tears took to coming out of my piss hole instead

Because I had to work in the public eye

Then words as talk come out as uttering

Words I'm paying myself to say to get the fuck on with my life

Is that strong boned man here in the place where glances are turned to smiles

And the truth is served pickled

He should be

But I know he's listening somewhere



Juliet Loranger