Cactus Mouth

I’m not usually this quiet,
but I have to be,
because what I say:
won’t help
won’t sway
won’t make you stay—
won’t change the way you feel.

Can we be real?

It hurts to kiss you,
to miss you,
pricking myself
on the spines that stick from your tongue,
protruding like a badge of honor for the young
needing a method to protect themselves
from the truth
that they’re made of 90 percent water,
10 percent hot air,
without a care
that anything they once felt
won’t start growing again
until summer.

What a bummer,
to always be the one who breaks first
who makes the worst habit
of filling the little voids
with words that you might consider
a desperate attempt
at building an oasis
that’s easy for the both of us to find.

I am your pincushion,
your words, the pins,
your flowers show brightly in the sun
blossoming despite the lack
of hydration
because you were prepared for this.

My mouth.
My mouth was once a cactus
that grew before it could store enough water
to survive the heat.

Now my mouth is a syllabic desert;
your mouth,
the cactus filled with the linguistic equivalence
of water,
the likes of which
would save us both.

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