summer poetry kills us now.
Lemon.
like, lemon on your tongue,
but you love it
like, and you wish i wasn't so ******,
and i wish i wasn't so ******,
it's ironic in the way we keep living
i stopped calling
i stopped praying
cigarettes on my skin, that magic 8 ball, what'd it tell you?
stop asking me why i leave so often.
but hey, the last time your horoscope got it right- it hit you
along with every shot you took that night
singe, we singe our skin, chemistry converts calories and
today my bus almost crashed. almost
it goes something like, the unprecedented laughs we hadn't heard until its over
its over