VANTA

The sky is a gangrene of violet and grey. I’m the scrap of a prayer that the wind blew away. My throat is a cellar of rusted-shut "Whys," Writing her name where the city-grit lies. The concrete is teeth and my cardboard is thin; I’m a ghost in a body where no one lives in. My voice is a knot that my own hunger ties, I’m the salt in the gutter where the lullaby dies. ~Mio.