Grows Strong with Each Twerk

You are paper tiles over old news,fragmented portrait revealing its structure—if I am to pick a bone from you, this timenot a rib, the plates in which thoughtsare housed—you do know I’m alreadypart of your webbing? There where the mothstruggles to be released from its awesomeness,the hold grows strong with each twerk,with each cry to be free—it was drawn hereby remember-me. By need to see what the flameillumines in its wings. The way vulnerabilitysores you, like too much salt and sand erodesthe hue of your masking. You whistle rightthrough me, cart an adolescent humming downa boulevard of ghosts and air reminds us of the waterunderneath and you with these acres of skin, dammed.