At the Farmer’s Market, internally thinking, You Mouth Metaphor 

No one remembers the mouth. 

It’s probably dead in a ditch. The mouth talked 

But it didn’t speak. It knew the words cut, beat, prod, bleed

And they were on repeat. The action of drawing a bow

On a violin, but it’s the body with its blade. How precise 

You need to be. Like counting calories. 

[Why doesn't anybody put caution tape

 over the mouth?]

It doesn’t like being touched, it won’t bite. 

 (Before) Full, red lips walk down the boulevard. Strutting on Pine and first street. Eating natural foods bought from the local farmer’s market. Broccolini, spinach, peas. Processed foods too. Potato chips, fast-food burgers with extra cheese that hangs from the mouth’s lips. One man offered to let the mouth bite his tongue. The mouth sucked the blood off and smiled when he ran away. One man enjoyed the view from the back so much he offered his dick for taste. She moaned, but he couldn’t hear past her gagging. 

(After the before ) The mouth consumes addiction. Six pills (whatever color) to get a head start on the day. The wine the mouth swears by is a lipstick stain. Cabernet by the way. The mouth is lucky it has no arms otherwise the needles would’ve already done the job. The lips are no longer full. They’re wrinkly. Bruised with purple spots. The mouth is a wallet. With a purse bedazzled Juicy on the side. The mouth memorized a credit card number. The mouth was last seen hung on display at a beauty shop.