She starts out life spinning like the November wind

and the tornadoes of leaves that kick around at her feet

twist patterns into the pavement. She can't slow down

but she'll grab onto you, just to give off the illusion

of trying to be stable. Her eyes flash with smoke and

there's relaxation flooding her blood as dust settles in her

hair. She's cold in November but you can keep her warm.


By June she'll be drinking down shots like spit, swallowing

like it's all she'll ever do for you. Don't pretend to love her

but if maybe one day you could save her, well, that might

work out. She shivers even in summer, rubbing tanned arms

with what's left of terror. Her hands shake from the

drugs in her half-full lungs but there's beauty in her head

flooding. She's drunk in June but you can drive her home.


If you could just love her for a day,

what a difference that could make.

She wants a savior, so, so bad.

But she's the one stringing you up on the cross.

(She can only swallow you down once.)