Sort of assume that their unspoken words are meant to be true
like some holy scripture written in celestial bodies and
evening weather forecast, the kind of truth that is refreshing,
comparable to a basket of ripe fruits in the corner of kitchen
or a letter inside a mailbox coming from heaven.
Sort of think that their tongueless words are living things—
the ones feeding a hunger for mermaid’s tales, the one
satisfying a thirst for saltwater, the one crawling next to a
little sandy space with bedtime story every night, so everyone
in the village could sleep in peace and dream anything but the
war inside such pale skins.
Never weaponize (y)our mouth even when they crave for
stroking (y)our hair or stamping purple marks on (y)our
thighs or pouring strawberry kisses to (y)our godsend
Be sure they would surrender to (y)our silence and dancing
hands; their lips—sealed by silver duct tape, their back—tied
to one of the temple’s pillars, and (y)our bodies—freed.
Still sort of wish someday they would decipher the code to
unlock (y)our inner desire and that those unspoken,
tongueless words could come to existence like an
astronomical sign or sweet flesh in cuts or sudden package or
a glass of water or books of myth or sleeping pills or anything
that is not really about them alone.
Innas Tsuroiya (b. 1997) is a writer and poet from Indonesia, currently trying to survive in law school slash hell. Her work has appeared in many cool places, also is forthcoming in Cicada Magazine and Heavy Athletics. She tweets behind the handle @innazous and dreams about a lot of things.