He almost fell over the edge, fear of day and debt pressed against beaded spine as toes touched the tip of subway platform and contemplated death.
I almost kissed your lips, shape of strawberry marzipan.
I almost lost you twice: two disregarded strokes, cancer, the undetected ignorance of a body.
I almost grabbed your thigh, shape of sturdy, squeezed it into a bruise, flashed my passport, so I could reach the better parts.
She almost took that sip of cocaine after years of cleanliness. Its neat formation of carefully crushed flesh whispering toward widened nostrils.
I almost had a baby, belly bursting like microwaved popcorn, but my kernels were empty and his sperm must have been too.
I almost told you what I used to be.
They almost left him. A young boy with carved quotations on his face and forearms. A brain slippery from the grease in his hair oozing inward. Skin, shivered and grey. A mother somewhere deep underground.
I almost smoked that cigarette, drenched in someone else’s spit, crushed torso from heavy fingers squeezing it. I almost needed to burn out my throat like that.
She almost wrote it down. Screamed it out. Pressed it out of notebook and into air to solidify its monsterism.