By Ken Arkind
“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche
The corners of my lover’s mouth lift and curl like the ends of whips,
she says she loves me and I swear I hear a crack.
Her lips feel like bayonets grazing my skin.
I do not trust my own reflection unless the mirror is cracked.
I do not believe my own tongue unless it is trying to choke me.
Every toaster is a cliff diver in the bathtub of my trust,
every apple is poisoned.
All the open palms are bear traps,
salivating at my trusting nature.
My life is a series of side eyes and near misses.
My friends are campfires,
Dancing, in love with their own light.
I am a tree
in the forest.
I cannot touch any of them.
I do not see
I am full of flame