Torn Up Tonsilmouth

we’re both so unhappy we’re all so strange

the flashing light of passing cars is, tonight, a lure and, tonight, we’ve run out of bait for each other

so maybe we’ll throw each other into traffic and dance with passing semis

which know so much power in this twilight world

and, in this twilight world, it’s important to know how to swallow yourself

and I’ve stopped eating unless one third of myself steps out and watches me probably because

there’s still something in our scents that loves itself

the carpet in the apartment is churning water

and where we used to be will soon be cold, but right now we can pretend that anything is warm

warm is the dead nun in my father’s memory

he tells me about her without a name because names never last as long as they should

he speaks of her as a goddess, as a witch that could never catch fire

no matter how many lives she managed to burn

the corner of our bed stays untouched because our feet are focused on fumbling over each other

outside there’s another collision splayed on our wall as a kaleidoscope of red and hard sound

we’ll stay in bed another hour until we both fall asleep

then who knows where we go

maybe I’ll be a car alarm tonight and I’ll sing you my forever song

Jacob Fowler is an elementary school teacher living in Oakland, CA. He recently graduated from Pitzer College with a BA in World Literature. His poetry has appeared in Barren Magazine, Levee Magazine, Ghost City Review, and Riggwelter Press, among others. You can find him on Twitter @jacobafowler.