style

I wear my toes 

like a coat.

My shoulders are warm

worn in like a plum’s bruise.

I appear to you

with unclean lines,

ready to be threaded

resewn at my hems.

I am a sour grape.

My mouth burns

at the expectation

of something sweet.

I kiss myself 

between puckered 

cheeks and a smooth,

untextured tongue.