"Don’t flinch, or else!"

She was born from the rib
of Jesus himself,
an angel’s light dancing
through cigarette smoke.

She nips at my shoulder.
I am older than I thought
I would ever live to be
by about a century and a half,
maybe more,
maybe less -
I second guess myself too much.

Her bedroom is royal blue,
with white lace to match
the thong strewn across the lampshade
like a barricade against the light;
flickering, flickering, flickering...
I can just make out her parents' bickering
in the salt on her lips.

I am younger than I thought
I would ever live to be;
she rejuvenates me,
and I hate every moment
I spend in her head.