Tonight at the playground:
angel-prone on cement with snow
in our faces (lets drown, you say. your hair smalls like cinnamon)
write me a lover letter. give me a part of you to own.
On the swings:
Your perfect, I tell her, she smirks; glitter grinding between her teeth
She says perfection
will never fit her right, I crush her against
the structure, I can't stop the screams.
On the slides:
Her breath is vodka
sour on my neck: I touch her (cherry tasting
little girl) please, I whisper, be perfect.