they’re fighting again and it’s dark again. they’re not yelling but they’re at home. they can’t help but do the talking in breathy whispers. her breath smells like fresh mango and fresh mango tastes like motorcycle exhaust and the loud music of the islands. she’s speaking in words that are too used to being thoughts to make sense. no one is listening. a car door slams outside and feels like part of her sentence. he’s not listening, maybe the carpet is. shagged up pieces of thought that he’ll step on like invisible legos until the vacuum runs over them. big breath mid-sentence. and another. and another. closed eyes then no words until tomorrow.
fire-flooded nights the glare of self-doubt
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