double

You have two tongues in your mouth without realizing it. One is whispering doubts and the other is licking your wounds. You tell yourself you’ll stay awake, but your limbs are too broken, withdrawing to denim blue sheets crocheting themselves around your body and wrapping it like a gift. You are depressed. You say you’ll get in the shower, as you lull your eyes into their shallow pockets, reciting assonant syllables that sound like a prayer. But who is God if not just the man who makes the hinges on your front door swing, so you make an offering to the roots of the trees that grow beneath your apartment because at least you’ve seen them bloom. Your tongues retreat into your throat before settling into self-made crypts. Someone calls your phone, but you don’t answer. You are busy dreaming, shaping a world that makes friends with the yellow light shining behind the cold touch of your windowsill. You are comfortable here because you never have to see yourself in a dream. And when you wake, you mean to get groceries, but your tongue is thinking about brushing his lips and how their love is enough to bottle and call a cure. You say you re asleep when you’re really licking your wounds, over and over again, until the clotting stops.