i built a dam of stone
to patch a leak in my brain,
keeping hasty yearnings
to myself, but cracks began
forming as my vision blurred,
he asked if i was okay,
i said yes, why the hell
did i say yes?
i shoveled sand into my mouth
to dry the temptation
from slipping up my throat
his laughter caused streams,
the ocean became overbearing
beaches of breathlessness,
as waves rolled against the
muck between my teeth
my voice mud when he asked
if i needed anything
my tongue split in two,
drawing blood when the devil
fought the angel keeping
my dignity, swords clashing,
scraping at my lips,
and i opened my mouth
mud and blood and spit and secrets
dripping into my lap and
he listened?
and before i could
scoop up the mess i made
shove it back inside me,
he kissed me
and i knew i was fucked.
Abigail Gray is mostly a writer, but also a full-time creature of the marshes who lurks in Earth’s beauty. Their work centers around nature, gender, the inner self, and mental health. They have spent their life collecting tokens as gifts for the birds and discovering new things about the world.
