there was a time in my life, not so long ago
where I shuddered at the thought
of accepting rides from strange men

my stubborn pride and hard caution
(along with my mother)
warned me against the dangers of this world

I would have rather sweltered
in the summer sun
than sit shotgun with a stranger

yet in these days of loneliness and repose
I have found any and all reservation lifted
I no longer mind the men of the road
aviators, mustache, gun in the glovebox

whatever unexpected kindness offered
whatever companionship, if just for a moment
I will now gladly take the risk to have.

familiar trees
the wood I call home
play on repeat all the things that I know
something rotting
flesh and bone
yet undiscovered
dried up blood on the sidewalk
quicken my pulse
twitch in the lung.

I listen to the voices of other men.

They tell me that I am a goddess,
worthy of all the love and lust in the world.

I listen to the music of their voices on repeat
artificial, prerecorded sweetness and affection.
Adoration and attention.
Sometimes dusted with lust.

Words that no longer come
from my own lover's lips.

I'm afraid that I am starting to look my age because I am no longer carded when I walk up to the bar. I think the permanent wrinkle in my brow may be telling - the creases in my forehead are also unkind to my youth.

Whatever youth is left in this body, a breadbasket of stress.

Of course, drinking does nothing to help preserve whatever visage it is that I am so greedily clinging to.

And oh god, what an awful thing it is to be twenty three. How desperately far away it is from nineteen, bright and burning.