Chicotx56

i. you called me last night a poem on the edges of your lips something you wanted to press against me like an imprint. it was a poem about a monster and a small girl screaming for help but no-one knew whether she was calling to on the behalf or because of the monster. you said, softly and solemnly that you'd never considered so many possibilities. i laughed and said i believed in all three isn't that a contradiction, you asked, and i just held the phone silently wanting to scream out a no but not daring. ii. the next day my parents sit me down at the dinner table to discuss my future. do i want to be a mathematician or a poet? they leave t