The wall bore the name of her chokehold-
a language birthed on the small of her back,
stippled in ink and shame,
in cold beads of sweat fucked thrice
and frozen over.

Writhing, but maybe to sew her skin on before morning,
before yesterday's skeleton retreats back
to his spectrum of melted sunsets, and bleeding citrus.

On the edge of nowhere,
thumbing through pages of nonchalance and lavender,
she remembers. Links nostalgia to her throat,
and convinces herself
that a jagged jaw
is nothing more than a prayer for a tooth.