No service.
No make-up.
Lips, chapped and pale
in an expanse of tanning skin.
Ears tilted like an elf’s.
Hands built to wrap around
a guitar’s neck—
to wrap around your neck.
Arms built to hang onto bodies,
laughter falling from mouths.
The dark opening
of the forests’ jaws,
tumbling forward,
leaning backwards,
making small talk
perched upon hips.
Every door,
every window,
open.
Burgundy blanket.
Burgundy cup.
Blue eyes,
blonde hair.
Brown eyes,
blonde hair.
Placing a cup over a flame
to choke it out,
then removing it to give it life.
Drowning hope and feeding it
in a slow kind of torture.
Mountain air,
clear, cool
down a throat cut open and stinging
from swallowing razors,
drinking vodka to make it burn.
People come and people go.
They come with false promises
falling from their tongues
and leave, retracting them back
behind their teeth to spit at
the next girl.
A new scar appears.
Crow calls
And blue jay song
remind you of home.
You want it to rain,
so maybe you can breathe.