The Antonymn In Her Breast Pocket

I'm ready to go. Upside down. Arguing with salamanders under her tongue about the duality of the sun. The crisp of baseball in young men. The salt of peanuts thawing her fingers.

I'm not there. In that nightmare disneyworld. Of beauties awakening. Vapid decathlon fueled by credit cards. I can't wear that. Turn that spit into sex. Like we did when we were still secure in our solitude. That it wouldn't betray us.

It's not where. Hanging pictures. Hammering nails in with our thumbs. Until all the walls are covered in our blood. Now it's home. Or something similar. If I could remember what that was.

The apostrophes hiding their fangs from a dungeon of words. Timid vampire. Feeble as they claim to be. Shadows of faces barely visible as her insides traces around them. Buckets of bait. Without a jury. Without their lawyers. Just accusations. And pleas. Random mosquito bites on her lips. While she waits on the virus.