SMALL

I am the starved sanctuary for un-formed words and
by I pass the feverish wind that recipes its way
beyond my teeth to mix another spoon of
awkward with a sifted pound of nervous laughter,
folding and kneading a cavernous desire
that piecemeals its softened voice
into any semblance of oral freedom
my selfishly shy lips will dare untangle.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 October, 2017

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