By Kore Fox

Based on the Prompt “Verge”

There are things

I want to tell you

That I can’t separate

Between head and tongue

And there are fireflies in my gums

And the storms are rolling in

On charcoal billows,

A thick stew in the air,

And I’m sitting in my sagging shorts

Wishing for an extra layer of skin.

Please never name

A highway after me

When I die.

What happened to your ears?

They were once so sweetly molded,

Strung so carefully to your lips

And mine to my wrists

And now it’s all down to our fingertips.

The old bath water pools at our ankles

And I just don’t want to be buried or burned.

Please don’t tie ribbons to my toes

Or seal me into a gift box.

I think it all began

When I told myself to die

And the waters still were hot,


Gleaming with green sweat,

And they spiraled,

A hurricane,

And grabbed me bare by the chest

And stuck their

Murky thrashing hands

Down my throat

And it was too hot

And I realized I did not

Want to die

But still I die

And please do not make wishes

To my womb.

For once, please pray upon

My empty, aching body

For whom I’m now lost.

Leave a Reply