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.)