Written by: Katie Pukash

The breath of air is so rude
smacking the weak of my cheek.
My knees utter haikus,
come to me sweet relief,
heat of a single heartbeat.
We get it through
culture shocks,
eyes on lock,
dungeon smoke,
swim until you choke,
among the mothers and the addicts,
drowning in conflict,
mourning in pin pricks,
rising in predictions,
floating in afflictions,
coated in addiction,
hung on predispositions,
like reading nonfiction,
fell on us like a harsh conviction.
I'm bound to these sentences
in the cold of the night,
my pen nearly broken,
no sunlight in sight.
I can't write
in this darkness
in this now without light,
no flickering candles,
just grab a spoonful,
taste the aftershow,
until your mouth is full,
Because we are bound to these sentences,
to our roofs,
to our homes.
We are bound to cardboard boxes
and deadend phones,
to the chill of tastebud mints,
and the harsh look of skin and bones,
to the sun faded,
ghost laden,
white shaded,
overcast aided,
purple bagged hollow eyes,
bound to sentences,
unwritten in the precursor of snow
and no man has ever told us where to go.
The breath of air is rude up here,
piling on blankets in fear,
the monsters come out
to tell you goodnight,
but the only demons living
are right here inside.