the smell of gasoline was making its way,
through my childhood home,
from the oven to the hallway,
to my bedroom, coming to stain my lungs.
somebody is going to wake up.
somebody is going to regret this.
my hair is still pink and blonde,
but the roots are coming in.
the paychecks getting smaller,
my lungs are getting darker,
and so are my sins.
finally we found ourselves a drinking spot.
four of us, two and two,
him and he, me and you.
packing bowls, crushing beer cans,
lighting up the dark.
I never asked myself for this
and I never accepted it.
but I found you by your voices.
by the smell that lingers
underneath our lamp post,
by the feeling that pulls me out of the dark,
and into the last summer of my life.