Birthdays

ⅰ.

My mouth carries the aftertaste of powdery ashes. of clowns of memory after blowing (or more accurately, heaving) a light green balloon that crinkles viciously at the tip.

Pica.

(a tendency or craving to eat inedible substances,
such as clay or plastic, and primarily occurs during childhood) what intensity that i force myself to maintain, an urge to shove the remainders of rubbery lime into the opening, and to grin.

And to display my watermelon mouth.

ⅰⅰ.

My ribs exhausted.

The petite jars cannot stretch any further, and so they writhe in their boxes.

Too weak to open the lid.

The vermillion border whitens from the lack of substance.

ⅰⅰⅰ.

The purple heads bleached by the sun, little bobbing circles.

Little maculas engrave the folding chairs.

I sink my soles onto the scattered trail, the wooden plank, which is held up by endless mounts of damp sand.

The ocean creeps into the hull of my ship, of my craving toes.

ⅳ.

The pierce, the embrace. it does not come as a shock.

The scratching of the villi against my gills the hands grasping what they can from my spine, and i am drained of my tension, of my seawater.