The orange traffic cones follow me like ghosts, weaving up the highway. Trying to help me get home.

Home is a blurred side eyed view in the passenger seat.

Count the stripes on your back, to equal out what your step dad thinks you lack. To make sure you never bleed out from those masses of granulation tissue. Fine lines to define your worth, girl. To feel the flames lick down your back, to wish for death, to only wake up again.

Isiah 53: 3-7 is *******

And if you’re dancing again, the ghost will follow your foot steps. Clamber up to your chest cavity and dive in. Die in. Die inside. Stopped dancing again.

Something spiritual how a rain coat keeps you warmer than last years winter jacket.

I’m going to love the hate out of you, it’ll pool at your feet and we will kick it away.

Something comforting about how the gears grinds and clicks. Like you’re in control of what happens next.

Hum drum of hookups, silique symphony. A long line of history, bad timing and misery. One night stands and two night bands traveling along my hip bones. If you play me right you just might get an encore.