I draw flowers onto the backs of my hands,
outlined in red sharpie and colored in
with green eyeliner that shimmers when
I bite my nails, and my fingers are numb
on my lips; I smile anyway.
We tumble onto couches and beds,
and I sing you songs about hotels and
pina colodas, staring up at your ceiling
and talking about cloud shapes.
my tongue is red from jolly ranchers,
and my lips are glossed for the cameras,
(voices murmur seductive glitterwords
as i play with my lighter and tell you
a truth about tomorrow –i'm starting to suffocate-)
i wake up, and your eyes snap closed, i laugh
and throw an empty beer bottle at you.
your hands twist my skin
into stars and hearts and picturesque
scenes (we call it in the air, heads and i'm yours)
that should be dressed in sequins and a bulimic glow,
self destruction is the newest mouth watering fantasy, doll,
didn't you know, we pretend to bleed for no reason.
(i am so bored with all of this,
we screech, kahlua spilling onto my jeans and
beer bottles shatter on the sidewalk. you pick up the pieces,
"this is your heart" and we throw them into the street,
the drug dealers pause and move on while the street lights
desecrate my hiding spots)
your guitar must be lonely tonight,
and we keep walking until the gas stations
are almost in sight, and you decide that a shot of vodka
and a cup of coffee would be justfinethanks, and the
track marks on your arms are still so angry.
(and: i am still so fucking bored)