If One of Them is Dead

I planted a FOR SALE sign at the back of my throat. But what it really advertises is how the corner of my mouth and my arteries like to give away my secrets for free. It’s like trying to have an estate sale at a free clinic. It’s like I’m selling an unwanted teen-pregnancy disguised as a love letter with no postage. Like the word rape disguised as the condom failing. Hunger pangs dressed up in “I just ate”. An addict addicted to addicts claiming they just enjoy the coffee at the meetings. My tongue is a trick and a rat. Snitches get stitches. But fuck sewing her shut. Waste of thread. I’ll let her bleed out. Bite down to silence the screams. Maybe next time I won’t have to gag her.