436 bytes:
i unlock my jaw,
open my mouth
as many times as needed.
i eat it.
the words
run down my throat,
i feel them.

i open the document,
select the text,
copy,
new file,
paste,
save as,
holly.md,
select location,
cloud.disroot.org,
done.
everywhere i go,
it’s there.

i take
what you give me.

plug in the printer,
connect,
OK.
line after line,
your/the/our/my words appear on the paper.
i hold questions in my hands,
invitations between my fingers.
i feel their edge,
it could bleed.

how to make them fully mine.
i open the printer’s drawer,
take a blank sheet,
unscrew my pen’s cap,
my arm is moving,
my elbow very slightly,
my wrist a bit more,
i crack my neck and
carry on.

your words are wonky,
moved by my hand.

is that still a cyberspace,
or just a new edge for your body
of words, a new fold
between you and

e9 3al,
because:

what happens when we’re outside?

⬿