1. It is whispered against my neck one night- zephyr light, a ghost that traces its way down between my breasts to get caught there and fester. Between our sweating bodies, splattered and written in the tracts of our tears. It weeps. We never mention it again.
2. You keep it for a decade. It is turning your insides tar black and runny. You never ask if I kept one too.
3. The name of every person you couldn’t love; the cries of the last woman you called by my name.
overt : it is killing you. (It is killing me.)
I'm an American poet living in Wales and no taller than an oyster shell. When not complaining about the weather, I can be found willing plants to grow, falling asleep in the greenhouse, or drinking entirely too much coffee. If you see me I will probably try to talk about ghosts or how my cat snores like an old lady.