ACROPHOBIA BY: MONICA RICO What they don’t say is everything looks small less harmful like this river from above doesn’t seem big enough a speck of rapid fuzz, shimmer of statice or suds whirring down the drain rock chipped away the rotten root of a molar uneven edge I press my tongue to or show it elongated as in a dream where the volume muted and the silhouettes of words remain, my friend mistook my echo as the tiny beads from wrist fell the size of skulls.
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