a piece of paper in my bedroom reads "try not to crave listening to your own voice"

my mouth smells like sour mangoes. the best kind.  there are scabs on my knuckles that seem to get pinker and deeper and more eager to sting than when i first awoke with them, wet and forgettable. i'm missing my knife. i keep cinnamon in my mouth for the burn and aching of my jaws. crooked glasses on my face, readjusting and fiddling and twitching. i realized today i read poetry aloud terribly. i enunciate without cadence and stutter into an abrupt strain from one word to the next. anxious for a period, or a comma, or any punctuation to alleviate lines of dribbling. line break, pause, sputter nervously, and never catch a breath. i'm working on it. not that i anticipate anytime soon to read poetry in front of anybody. it just bothers me about myself.