we're running out of gasoline and condoms
and in all this cold hot heat you still want to
fuck me and i tell you i want to fuck you too

[but really i don't, my mentality stopped working
once we crossed the nebraska border]

i'm looking for love out the windshield through that
crack in the glass-

[the one you made when you smashed my forehead
against it, remember?]- drumming bloody fingernails
on a wirethin thigh (and you still think i'm fatsofat,)

why do you always have to make this so fucking complicated

you ask me
your acid spit burns my cheek

i squeeze my shoulder blades together and air hisses
between the rib you cracked and the heart you stole
but then wasn't i the one who gave it to you anyway
that night in march outside the poolhouse with the end
of the world at our tongues and the tires of your mustang

[her sweet sixteen never tasted so bitter]


and every girl that i walk around seems to be more of an illusion than the last one i found -the white stripes, "little cream soda"