We had just crossed into Georgia.
I hadn't thought her eyes could stay
propped open for so long, staring at
the stretched clouds like skin
that lay ugly on the evening sky.
There were very few ways to pass the time,
as we had underestimated the amount of
music a three day trip would require. My
hands trembled when she spoke, my intestines
ablaze with the Mexican food, and the sound
waves of the mariachi trumpets bursting through
the pours in my skin.
I hadn't had an opportunity to tell her, not allow
for even a sentence to bubble through the air
like those in comic books of my feelings. Though
I knew she'd understand, I did not want to risk
our situation. I had spent the entire last night,
awake in the mouth of my bedroom shark
being jostled around by the tongue of conviction,
the tongue pressuring me to the roof of that shark
suffocating me, my mouth could still not move.
My mother had told me about these types, but
not much. Not enough to keep me out of trouble.
No matter how many times someone asks you
'What's wrong?' you will only answer them if it is
the very first time they've asked.
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