music tastes like sand because ears have refused to eat the good sounds, and there’s me under my grandmother’s cane chair locking the little doors of the now empty little rooms that used to house my griefs before they burst out to smear themselves on my body. skies are tumbling down to kiss the grounds that are rising to greet them, and there’s me hanging around the horizon, praying to vanish or melt, like sugar atop a burning fire, into something like caramel, or simply melt away into nothingness, because mouths try hard to stretch into sour smiles that look ugly, ugly like pieces of knitted flesh.

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