break open my jaw.
constructed without hinges
small bits of self forced to seep
through dry skin
the word membrane.
solidifying aqua molecules
rob the body
of celestial hum.
Rigidity made love to my jaw.
Semi-romantic.
I can’t look you in the eyes.
I’m accelerated shyness
soft and unnerved.
I’m agreeing before we’ve started talking.
My fingers feel three times longer;
I’ve manufactured more knuckles.
I’ve stolen months worth of air.
Lauren Peter is a Midwest-based poet. She has a BA in Creative Writing from Metropolitan State University. Her current coping mechanisms are sparkling yerba mate and acrylic painting. You can find more of her work in Ghost City Review, Postscript Magazine, and DYNAMIS Journal. Twitter: @EyesLikeAChild.
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