I can still function but I can’t take out
The broken part inside my brain.
If I turn my face up to the light, you can see
That my lips are covered
With the messy finger prints of ghosts
As they are trying to open my jaw
Because they think I can issue an amnesty for them.
But they turn out to be distracted and fascinated
By the stiff and white caves deep in my throat.
Those caves are full of my saliva. When the tide raises upon the moon,
Most of it turns into tears
When the tide recedes
My thoughts die inside the caves and turn to dark green,
algae-like decorations on the stones.