A Kind of Practice

You measure out everything that circles. Like pills without the aftertaste side-effects medical coverage. You decide you have practiced long enough. You decide your local news feed could benefit from something like this. You decide not to swallow yet. Instead, you hold all these circles on the tip of your tongue, some guerrilla themselves down your throat. You have been searching for the cleanest options, you’ve made too much of a mess these days. You slide the tiniest questions behind your fingernails for them to find. You masturbate one last time using only toes and elbows. You briefly wonder what they will say, how they will pretend they knew you. You trace the expected size of their teardrops on your thighs, look at the oxidized moon one last time and become consumed.

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