Some days she feels she’s filled with thistles. A prickly mouthful of mispronounced words. Meaning comes last, sensation first.
Some days he’s looks like broken glass and smells like barbed wire. A bloody perimeter, and no-one gets in.
Some days she’s packed full of autumns. Boots tramping brittle leaves. Bonfires flicker and snap and crack.
Some days he’s a walking spelling mistake. Well intended but poorly translated.
Some days I taste like pins but sing a song of threadless needles.