The 3 am twilight blues his sandpaper skin
A beast-like hue
she feels down
So he lifts her spirits
By the neck
Like a Heineken
“DO NOT call the cops”
His words sharp objects
He speaks machete fluently
I freeze
He ice skates on my childhood
Blades figure eights on my frosty irises
His face switches from blue to red
Like 3D glasses
I think of alps in the summertime
Defrosted mountains unveiled
Scooby-Doo villains
The much-awaited unmasking
One time he shoves her
And murders a generation
Her run-ons have become clauses
Short.
Incomplete.
Terminated.
I smell miscarriage on her breath
Now her voice carries
What her stomach cannot
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
The 3 am twilight blues his sandpaper skin
A beast-like hue
she feels down
So he lifts her spirits
By the neck
Like a Heineken
“DO NOT call the cops”
His words sharp objects
He speaks machete fluently
I freeze
He ice skates on my childhood
Blades figure eights on my frosty irises
His face switches from blue to red
Like 3D glasses
I think of alps in the summertime
Defrosted mountains unveiled
Scooby-Doo villains
The much-awaited unmasking
One time he shoves her
And murders a generation
Her run-ons have become clauses
Short.
Incomplete.
Terminated.
I smell miscarriage on her breath
Now her voice carries
What her stomach cannot
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