White socks and heavy breathing.
Like lungs of cinnamon and cigarettes.
I want nothing more
than to fix my little fingers on
word formulations and wine glasses
while you pinch my back in public
and make me choke on fake blood and Dunkin Donuts.
Spread the petals
and cut the stems
before submerging.
Wet.
Raw vegetables and sticky fruit bear
no resemblance to long car rides and comic book stores.
Ambient. I want to run
sunlight on my face, and stroll
through graves and breathe
in the scent of fresh laundry
and crime scenes.
I want to
drive past childhood trauma
and driveways, where you terrorized
the neighbors and built benches
and danced with Juggalos
in Jean Jackets and Fringe.
I want to weave around
roads in the dark and kill
the monsters as we see fit.
I want to.