Confessional Booth Number 9

Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt. Blink razors carve her iris script. Rib stars ovulate in feral grates, mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath. Keystroke ruin writes in collapse, a waveform lodged in sternum glass. Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts. Tree-call through copper root systems. Wire-pluck storm, vapor chews the stock market Cancer caught in molar hush, brined in citrine static. She opens her throat like a coin purse. Spine bows in semaphore. We dismount the edge— An incisor cusp, the confession still blistering beneath the flesh of no language.