When the mouth of the bottle hits your lips,
you close my eyes, and swallow mouthful
after mouthful, your lip gloss fuck me slick,
your hair is a mess in his hands.

(he is not impressed with
the way you write your secrets,
slanting and messy, crawling along
painted bricks and dented aluminum doors)

The inside of your mouth is bloody,
and your teeth ache. your fingers are numb,
and your hands are burnt. the smeared ink
on your palms is a testimonial to your desire
to live on words and breathe revolutions.

the world screams by, neon colors
and imperfect shapes, cocaine off
cover-up compacts huddled against
the side of a semi truck, you imagine your brakelines
are cut and the guardrail is coming up fast,
you kiss him and you revel in the hitch of his breathing
and how chapped his lips are, and his face is fragile
beneath your hands and your lips and your
cruelty, you watch his hands get shaky and smile.

you don't know when you stopped playing
tragic and started living it, but you
just drink another shot and swallow
bitter pill after bitter pill (your nose
is bloody and your head aches) and you
dig your nails into his shoulders and
pretend that you aren't such a dirty liar.