my body is gridlock.
my body does not flow like a salty river,
or resemble the gracefulness of an old tree,
my body is more like pique hour traffic.
it's like the 101 freeway between
los angeles and los angeles.
my nerves are always, tense. desperately crawling
up and around my nervous disposition.
trying to get to the dirty underbelly from
I speak like rubber burning, and my eyes are neon lights.
cigarette butts for fingers, exit signs my only inner beauty.
and I wonder if he knew when he touched me,
that I was, traffic? just an angry precession of
carbon dioxide gas.