We speak in stapled tongues
and carve messages in the same muddy skin.
After years of matching black eyes and accents
the same rotten stench sits in your mouth.
We sit so close I can taste it,
tooth to tooth, bared and soaked in envy,
I am everything you could still be-
But still I long for you.
Your slumped back, our twin arches,
the fear I feel when you hold me, you house of mirrors.
I bet you pronounce aeroplane the same way I do, in your head,
(a persistent slur, like the stench of meat and curry underneath your fingernails even after the dish soap,)
before we melt and mold into fake American gold,
when we are two rocks of clay unmoved on the same soil,
I long for how easily you bruise me: like a child’s finger upon a saccharine plum,
and deep down I know