Matches by Emily Melvin

Emily Melvin

Unworthy of your love, your matchsticking skin, your curls, your words and your proofreading sessions. My dialect earns definition, while your lips still touch. A pucker isn’t wide enough to holler what you hold. Those teeth are just ice. The pick you pass from left to right can’t shatter those igloos or melt lyrically with the greenery. No matter how high your ruptures are low bestowed in a place I will someday roll in sheets of paper for you to ignite an asthmatic cough.

You shrivel for my potential, I’m so unworthy of it all: your pointless affection Friday night booze cut skin and tattoos. You’ve placed me in your juncture, we’re joint by design so I’ll give you a hit of your words, the ones that are stuck burning inside your mother-fried lungs.