Something that resembles everything

Inside your clasped hands
you keep a million small, black bats
with furious echolalic gnawing

i crack open your ribcage
expecting to see your shimmery crystal guts exposed,
yet find only vestiges from previous efforts to be vulnerable
spill out and then disappear

tell me the words you’d prefer,
like inscriptions in a burned down church
or a lonely planet guide to an
uninhabitable asteroid

better yet, let’s invent
new languages out of old words,
freely broadcasting its cacophony

we’d carve visceral chicken scratches hard
onto each other’s ambient thighs

i rest my head in your kinetic dictionary
and we stay like this for several thousand years,
until you finally whisper with some contrived sigh
“you think too much when we fuck”

i commit this phrase to my internal monologue
so that i may gradually process it for the rest of my life

fresh neuroses for my garden bed,
more new words for the same old things

 

 

 

 

 

 

Allison Gallagher is a writer from Sydney, Australia. They can be found online at allisongallagher.com, and regularly tweet at @aewgallagher.

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