this sultry tease of summer,
skin peeling off of leather and cracked heels on the dashboard,
blisters on feet panicking like geysers,
this oxygen resembling cinder-blocks
slightly more carefree -

imprints of crinkled toes never left the passenger seat.
the bags in your eyes were unmined emeralds-
my bones shared strict resemblance to anvils,
and I was too ******* high to inject these sullen thrills.

the new car smell never comes back.

my stomach is no longer a carnival at the sight of freshly opened eyelids, only a dimly-lit, mold-infested dungeon.

may I begin the Spring cleaning by sweeping your eyelashes off of the leather?
or shall I leave your grace,
along dried crumbs off screaming green dopamine,
in the creases?

always,
always,
always
passionate visions of my chest smashing through the windshield like a steel-framed freight train,
fueled by every damning item on this laundry list of self-inadequacy.

salvage yards cannot simply exist as ubiquitous rows of lost souls
------
there must be hope for the hot season to melt away the rose-tinted skidmarks burning my irises.