I keep you in my palm.
I keep you in my fist,
squeeze you in my
palm and write my
name with fingerprints,
dotted drips
like roads on paper;
designs with influence,
personal meaning
but lazy, passive,
afterthoughts marked with
drops of your warm
blood.
you say
“afterthought?
you built a town and
stuffed me in it.”
as if I had a choice.
I say
“I wasn’t thinking straight.”
(you saunter)
“And.”
some things are greater than
escape. like staying, rubbing yourself
together with vigor and
bursting into flame
or the coy way I sit next
to you on the bench.
lick my dry lips
without looking up and
pull the hem slowly
with my stubbed, teal nails
to point to the tattoo of
the north star on my leg;
black, sharp and fresh.
“and
boy
you
better
run. “
“The gauntlet”
daturamoon.com 
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