By Salonee Gupta
If you pass two fingers
up the front of my ribs,
you’ll feel me take my breath in
And when you reach it;
a soft sticky pounding
sweaty like a heart
that’s only learning how to beat
The air between my ribs
changes like the seasons
sometimes it’s wildflowers;
warm with stories
sometimes a hurricane
blue- inside of me
But every time-
this sticky lump
thinks its got it right
you throw me so far away from myself
And so I look for words
they’re all I’ve ever had
And maybe
they’ll bring me back,
to me.