Each word is a thread/ you weave with your teeth/ and your fingertips

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This is exactly how you

disappear.

The words you wrote

letter by painstaking letter

are turned into

bubblegum that POPs

with each crunch of their molars.

Those serifs surfing unsafely

in the lining of

your critic’s intestines.

But then you

reappear:

line by line

sentence by sentence

page by page.

You do not collapse into

yourself,

a hot mess of verbiage,

imploding like a dying sun.

You

become.

Each word is a thread

you weave with your teeth

and your fingertips

to assault the world

in violent bursts of

violet yarn.

Ignore their crunching

gnashing teeth on tone and

tense —

Your words are worth

more than a bubblegum tongue.

Your words are worth

more

than you give them

credit

for.