Greaseball.

slicked cheeks

burnt

hot from their lover's stove.

thin straw hair

cooler than the blondest shade

whips over her dead face

hypathetically dead

body is still alive.

it rolls over on the trampoline

close to the sun

far from the moon.

a toasty, burnt like taste

fills the mouth slowly

eyes squint

then take the shape of two slivers carved into flesh.

fhe flesh of a face

the face falls back against the bouncy material

no turning back now

no turning back, you greaseball.