wrap my feline teefs around your froat

a small sapling springs— such a pitiful thing; far too easily stamped and reposed

braving worlds of hurt, peeking out from the dirt, bares a valiant grin as it grows

My lacking, it grows; on your Arms I lean, heavy,

I want to fall back but your Arms, they're too steady

Dust bunnies leap From my ears, and my nose

Arms keep me from  Crumpling, holding space For my prose 

i scoff and tell her the likelihood of my sharing a room with someone so lucky is not credible

she laughs, then tallies her monthly budget on a napkin

lists her child, her degree, her wisdom and her friends her parents still lucid and her health, her culinary skills and her back-up, emergency rent

and once it’s summed up, it's unavoidably true-- she’s right,

she has a billion - just over, in fact; just enough for an uber home

shame was supposed to be something i outran and outgrew, not someone i could know intimately by the sound of their footsteps ascending the stairs

shame is a knee jerk reaction, something instilled over the course of years, mutating and fusing with my spine, my prefrontal cortex and my fingers, which only find comfort laced to one another

shame is the excruciating pain of looking another in the eyes, every second longer than the last and every thought oscillating, wrapping in ribbons around my torso and my limbs

lingered in doorways and rooms covered in dust there, silent or stoic mouth sharp, slicing, brusque 

there’s nothing quite so demeaning as verbal structures congealed: a generational toll for never learning how to feel

and for a moment i feel nothing

more than alive

Our static meets in the

middle, and there it conjoins,

My heart beats in my mouth, pulsing under my tongue. Ligaments in my neck shift, and seem to catch - I feel the bubbling of nausea in the pit of my stomach at the unwanted image of my swallowing, causing the ligament to stretch beyond its limit, and snap. An image I wince at all too often. But as quickly as it envelops me, it dissipates, drying out my inner cheeks and ridding my face of blood. I halt, cold -- unfeeling. My fingertip traces the rim of my coffee mug. Beads of sweat form on my inner palm, fingers curled over.

I stop, just for a beat.

Then, only vaguely, I adjust the angle of my hand, fore-fingers tentatively holding the mug's handle, as though it were an old, festering sock discovered under the couch. Slowly, slightly, I lift my wrist, in turn angling the mug 15°, 30° clockwise, and it begins to drip. One drip, hot on my thigh. Hot. Two drips drop--more substantial now-- a third fusing a small puddle on my limb. Where they run off, trailing down the side of my leg, red welts begin to form. My outer layer hisses as I finally upturn the mug and its contents empty across my lap, scalding and sizzling.

I'd shudder, but at what? Pain I actively sought?

I find myself by the kettle, somehow, unsure of the steps taken to arrive here, and I fill it with water from the sink before closing the lid.