happy birthday to me (nov. 7)

my mouth is a sobbing violin with a story to tell.
a whirlpool starts up in my calves and the strings
in my throat draw tight as my muscles stretch
and snap. the corners of my mouth
split and my teeth rot out to make more room
for words. my pregnant tongue gives birth
to a thousand starving children.

my audience collects around a campfire
lit in a forest of lost trees. there are scavengers
masquerading as rusting leaves, barely
clinging to their branches.
my eyes catch the glint of the vultures' beaks,
the feathers of the seagulls' wings.
a whirlpool starts up in my lungs,
emptying my chest cavity.
when my tongue is sucked in,
that's when the scavengers will alight from their perches,
and start to consume what's left.