My love does not fit into a box
It dances around it, pulling it this way and that to form a new shape made by the touch of
our lips
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when it began PERSON A SAW PERSON B as a fantasy made flesh…
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“stammer: to make involuntary stops and repetitions in speaking”
I’ll wonder why you find it so tiresome –
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though you say it’s 2.37, telling me what love is…
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This poem is about how I learnt to swallow. How I forced my throat to break the confines of science. How I raised my tired middle finger to biology and morphed into a hybrid of myself.
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