Does It Make a Sound?

The apron across her thighs was dirty. Had it always been? She contested. So many movements. Like mosquitoes sucking. Anesthetized skin. The more they bite down. The less I notice.

Right triangles. Ugly manifestos of then. I broke because they did. The puzzle. Paint by numbers. Losing count.

I'm red. Where do I go? I'm blue. What is my number?

Go to sleep she cautioned the parking lot. All your spaces are empty. And it's not my fault.

Relax. She warned the window. All your glass is breaking. And you can't blame me.

I'm just telling the lies in the order that they are received. Calm dictators pruning their rose bushes. Old men with their hands on their penises. Telling stories about their last hard on.

The forest between her legs. Wondering. Has it made a sound.