Little tattooed flowers, all on her arms, like signs pointing the way toward the very middle of her. There’s too much of her for your eyes to swallow in a single glance, little things missing and scattered about, left lying in her trail. She’s a wind wedded to a road behind a bullet, spent shell casing sitting here burning my palms as I rub the metal for good fortune.
These girls that are all the spoils of the world; my liquor-lacquered throat humming the memory of a jail-song from the urn set calcified in my gut. I know this one by sight and smell, I remember missing something I lost, but then I couldn’t remember what it was for the longest time until I touched her with my own hands. Hammering out poems alone in a frenzy of cocaine, digging my grave with a hard heart stolen and torn and eyes made of glass and the gnawing suspicion the abdomen feels toward the knife before it’s stabbed.
Come close and sleep, my pillow stained with nightmares I tried to swallow and eat to clear my throat, trying to breathe. Everything fell out of a hole, up, as if gravity stopped. The world become small enough to put in a box.
I sent the needle home.
I become the sun, and it’s warm and it’s known and it’s as safe as it gets, at the needle exchange with a chip on my bent shoulder from carrying around my self.