I reach inside of you like a pricing game,
pull out slips of things, read them aloud.
I wear your panic like musk, taxidermy
the remainder of your vinyl collection.
Shhh, this isn’t your blood; it’s my love
breaking the dam of your skin.
The autopilot always worked,
your mouth as trigger; I counted the
popcorn hanging like an empty threat
on the ceiling.
When you crossed the border,
I connected the popcorn into
a maze, Jason, Minotaur;
I forgot the string.
J. Bradley is the Web Editor of Monkeybicycle. He lives at iheartfailure.net.