People People People By Lillian Tookey
I’ve become out of tune. I fell in love with the chubby boy, the ping pong, I dreamt of small, institutionalized places, people spanking, people and their strange rhythm. All they ever do is speak, don’t you see that? Don’t you get bored of the frog’s croak? I don’t know. Most of the time people think I’m kidding with all my toilet jokes and my mouth trumpeting, I am not. I’ll be honest, I am picking a ripe nut, I’ll be honest, I crack it open with two fangs, leaving the fruit dirt a vest of a song, too afraid to rain, too afraid to show its smell, its sound. I fear my last name, “Toucan,” “Tookey,” I fear the smile on one’s face after I introduce myself the other day I explained, that I want to rain, I want to split my grapefruit and wish on “until” but the people just do not quit, I want until the want in me is understood there would be no room for arguing, there would be a plead, to move forward or to change to keep the room for silence a space you can walk in and wonder who you are to sift out what must not be said, and to say the things with all the skin we were given leaving very little very little
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