my collarbones are toothpicks
once dipped in mercury—

the kind that’s found in
secondhand cream, online.

the knuckles on our feet
grow tougher each time a

disappointing phone call
says “grace” amidst the quiet.

the water gets higher, but
flipping the switch is a joke

that reminds you that life
is like waiting at the DMV.

yesterday, a sweater and
today’s sliced peaches—

their sweetness pouring
down sunburned skin.

balancing acts gone bad
like marbles on cats’ heads.

you can go to sleep, and
lock doors without shame.

no one stays out past nine
with paychecks already frayed.