My tongue curls in on itself,
an unreasonable fist
too stubborn to unclench.
Pulling punches, muscle memory
it never owned, saves
what little flesh hasn’t folded
to thicker skin in the game.
Yet here it is, unraveling,
slowly surrendering to necessity—
callused, unwelcome softening
in a mouth that remembers
nothing gentle, nothing easy.
The grip loosens only to recoil,
a reflex meant to protect,
now an ill-fit for the...
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