I could die
of smoke inhalation
in a trailer park in Southern Alabama,
my hair streaked with lemon juice
and you wouldn't miss a breath.
My vocal chords throb from chanting
your name to St. Anthony.
I am a 17th century puritan,
nothing without you.
My man.
My grudge.
My emptiness.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
I could die
of smoke inhalation
in a trailer park in Southern Alabama,
my hair streaked with lemon juice
and you wouldn't miss a breath.
My vocal chords throb from chanting
your name to St. Anthony.
I am a 17th century puritan,
nothing without you.
My man.
My grudge.
My emptiness.
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