Joy feels like
languid words
dripping from the
edge of your mouth
and into the cryptic ether.
Joy feels like
quietly sitting while
anxiously petting a pet
on the sofa in the middle of
the night when no one is awake.
Joy feels like
office scrutiny
after hours, after
they’ve all gone home
to feed, nest, fuck, and forget it all.
Joy feels like
uncertainty boiling
over into the reality we
bleed for, kill for, and die
to decide for, as if we make the rules.
Mouth Thorn 