Emily Wong
Brick Between the drinks and the cigarettes— the smell of vine-ripened tomatoes; the sound of the cicadas. Slung moons slow ocean: Switching addictions is tricky. I am bones walking down a runway. I am the shape of shadows. Of dying light. Sleep inside my lungs; breathe into someday. Someday meaning never, never meaning: That heart-stopping moment; the pin-prick through your left lobe. I brought a mood ring, a broken windshield, and literature… smelling of death. I love the space between the pauses: a quiet cliché, a blackened heart. That tire screech, metal crunch. That perfect, plastic, better dream; my cracked scapula whispers: Going home is easy— it’s the arriving that sticks in the throat.
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