Rough Map

The landlord’s voice was a flat, gray hum

while my tongue found the place where the skin gives way.

I’ve been chewing on the same soft mistake

since the rent hike landed on a Tuesday.

There is a ridge of scar tissue, a raised white line

that feels like a mountain range under the tooth.

I bit down too hard when he mentioned the plumbing,

a sharp, copper taste that felt like the truth.

It’s a secret geography I keep to myself,

a topographic map of everything I can't afford to say.

I run my tongue over the jagged, raw edge

and wait for the swelling to go away.