the frog drinks the toad into the yellow

his marshland swallows the lilies,

forcing the flowers beneath the muck

taking the air into the gas vents,

the slow rise of the quicksand like the riff of a lyre

the rumbling breath of her forest and the creeping mosses

inch over the days, sticking into his walls, breaking apart the rock

the swamp makes her think of suffocation

like the earth is drowning itself, choking on its own spit

and slowly unraveling the dark

they curl tighter

the arms around the chest and

the scraping of the chin hairs like

wiry toothpicks on her neck–she wants

the illusion of freedom

the soft brush of others’ eyes, their hands passing her legs,

a removal–the certainty of falling traded

for the certainty of drowning, preferring the lightness of air to the heaviness of breath,

the yawn rattles

the dawn and

it is breaking the sun to pieces, the sheets

constrict and she is greeted by the fear of the sameness,

his bare feet in the shower,

the cold soap

on her spine.

[photo by Augustin Paredes]

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