i've swallowed six pills.
my mother has had eight
cut.
we both cry and pull
at our skin, sit and sink
in the cold of this rusting metal city,
this wired tangle of world.
down our cheeks drips the black tar:
guilt.

but there's no need to turn to salt
for tiny writhing strangers,
she said. i was twelve thinking of
shinier cities, taller buildings.

she looked me straight in the eye

*******
unfinished