You believe you've crashed every airplane you've ever ridden on
You waste your life trying to be less obvious than your reflection
Your fingernails dig into your empty back and listen to a soft thunder
more or less
Your tongue keeps sticking to neon signs
The red light district of a thousand small towns
A greasy thumb traces the bitter shape of your
Reasonable faces float apart before your eyes
You fondle off your clothes, your body resembling an ossified cloud
Your hair, thick with unease, drools over
skin, thin and panting
You keep searching for a sensuality
in the way you wring your hands
You've changed so much
your phone doesn't even recognize your thumbprint.
Trev Plate spent his childhood on the island of Guam and graduated from The Evergreen State College in Washington State with a degree in Literature and Computer Science. Trev currently resides in Minneapolis, MN where he works in the nonprofit sector while continuing to pursue writing.