Cigarettes and
red nail polish,
and one night stands,
that's what little girls are made of.

Bright blue pills and
soft pink lips,
and whiskey soaked nights
laced in regret,
that's what little girls are made of.

The sharp boys who whisper
behind street lamps in parks
know nothing of
what little girls are made of.

Broken hearts,
crushed dreams,
bitter souls, and
black coffee,
that's what little girls are made of.

Tear tracks and
bloodstains,
bruised knuckles and
fire.

That's what little girls are made of.

There are no prizes at the end
You earn them along the way
Each of us starts
And ends
At different time
There is no telling when we stop
Unless we make ourselves

They say life is a race

Along our course, we'll
Love and hate,
Learn and forget,
But most importantly,
We grow
We become who we are
And find ourselves
Many will not like what they find

They say life is a race

When we finish
What lies there after?
Will we forget the pains and sorrows?
Which we have all encountered.
Or will they linger forever on?

They say life is a race.

We are all racing towards death
From the second we are born
We are dying
This is life
And death
Because

They say life is a race.

It’s that awkward time between 5 and 6 pm where his eyes are the colour of mocha brown stained novel pages and finger tips callused and crinkled with years of practicing and gripping too tight on a black biro pen.

He turns the corner of the street and we make a narrow escape to the highway where careful mothers have their children strapped to seats wailing with voices so shrill yet so untouched and pure..

And I turn and I look out the window and plaster on a sad look like I’ve been copy pasted out of a sad music video about boys and breakups and lost loves, reminiscent of the paraphernalia of stories and soaps and television shows my mother used to watch.

Slowly I turn and I feel a tap on my shoulder blades and he asks me if I’m ok but secretly I’m wishing and hoping that there’s more to life than this god forsaken city but I still say I’m fine anyway.

"The city looks really nice this time of day" he says and I just don’t see it because everything around me is illuminated in fake fluorescence and wired in with the hands of a man who’s just lost his wife and swears his depression is just a phase.

"Squint and you’ll see it" he insists but I can’t because the world is in monochrome and the concrete of the buildings are the tombstones of chivalry and manners, filled to the brim with office workers hunched over stacks of papers and lists.

He turns left at the third intersection and laughs at a man squabbling drunk cursing the world on the side of the road and I hope he doesn't know that it was what I'd do if he let me grab the bottle of Jack from the trunk.

"Goodnight and godspeed," he laughs and I say "*******" in exchange for a hug and so another day passes in the presence of car windows and rolling cityscapes.

After Sunday you stink of hypocrisy
Please don't waste your breath preaching to me
To me it's one big joke
as you line up for the punch line
Wearing your see through clothes
and flaunting your plastered eyes
Keep funding your guilt
as I kick back and criticize
Pockets full of change
I wound not spare a dime

this night was different;
there were more moments spent looking back then forward,
panic always pulsating in the crook of our throat
like some giant, out of breath beast
waiting in the hollow sweat, and gnarled tree branches
reflecting black against the slightly purple sky.

it was too quiet to mask our
echoing footsteps;
boot on pavement
no rain to soften the blow.

we made it in thirty minutes to the gas station,
where we unzipped our jackets
and let the lace show out of our drooping shirts
blinking like a warning sign
to the drugged up cashier,
words mumbling over his body,
strings mixed up.

men entered and i saw that look
that i always see
in men who look at me;
its hungry, a type of lusting mouth with no
feeling,
**** trusted more than his heart.

the kind of look that says,
“i want you feeling my biceps in the back of
my truck,
and i want to feel your tightness all over me,”
the only problem is i play along,
pretending to be seductive
and then leaving with an agonizingly frozen stare, and
a quickened pace
just to show them who's actually in control.

a pack of Newports exchanged over the counter,
another lighter;
this time with a green and red flower on it;
dahlias of the night.
exoskeletons of black jackets and tights
like some shadow riding vagabonds,
inside guts made out of
swallowed cigarette smoke
and bravery.

we smoked and walked,
watching as headlights flickered toward our slim frames,
and men leaned out from trucks
with salivating mouths like dogs,
inviting us to their burning desire
in the cold, shrinking night.

under the layer of skin
that tells the girl beside me that it would be stupid
to heed to their invitations,
i admit to myself
that all i want is for a stranger to wrap around me
and kiss my smoke stained lips
with a different fury,
so i can whisper a fake name in the depths of their ears,
and show them that i will kiss
better than all the women that have
wrapped themselves in
their limp bedsheets,
and leave them wanting more as i disappear into the night,
leaving nothing but a longing burn
on the tips of their tongues.

but i don't give into my fierce desires,
and we simply turn around,
smoke five more cigarettes,
and climb up the fence
to **** her hand,
and run across the raging freeway
like the Klamath itself.

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.