Pulse Point

My teeth are sliding out of the place my braces assigned them to years ago,
everything in me was made to disobey and go where they want.
I’ll sing the praise of my own sliding heart with my crooked mouth;
I’m leaving this braced position of cautiousness.
If I bite down on your neck now,
the marks probably wont match up in six months.
But so what?
We were never promised permanence.
But spring will come,
spring always comes.
And I will travel with my sliding heart,
and crooked teeth,
to line my imperfections up on your neck again

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