Scheme #222

I walk around with zippers on my lips.

What’s that you say?

Can you not see them?


Why, they’re plenty visible to me,

Plain as the freckles on my face.

Their teeth are on the outside of my mouth, not the inside.

Clear as day.


But no one can see the little teeth anyway.

They’re always locked shut.


They’re jammed into my lips.

And my lips are usually always bloody from the metal.

My saliva tastes of nothing but metal.


But I can’t scream.

My screams are muffles,

Silenced by the zippers.


The zippers don’t let me eat;

They want my mouth closed.

The zippers don’t let me speak;

They want my mouth closed.

The zippers don’t let me sing











The zippers want my mouth closed.


They’re a toll booth that accepts no tolls.

My tongue tries to break them

In vain.


For it’s a hard task indeed

To break the zippers on our mouths.


Mom cries when she thinks of my zippers.

She curses the day they sprouted on my lips.


She must have forgotten;

I was born with them.

I imagine they gave the doctors quite a fright,

But I’m sure the hospital room was much quieter,

Thanks to their stifling my infant screams.


But I cry sometimes, too,

When I think about them.

I think about them a lot, in fact.

I think about many things.


What else can we do

When we have zippers on our lips,

But to think?


To wonder








I often scheme

Of ways to break the zippers.

For surely they will grow rusty

With time.


I’ve gotten close in the past,

And I think the zippers are afraid.


But to this day, they’re still on my lips.


Maybe one day

One of my schemes will work.


Because my mind is one place

Zippers cannot lock.


Don’t tell them,

But these words

Are my most successful scheme yet!

The End

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