it kindles with a passion
only met by her deep hatred for love.
it blossoms
like a girl losing her virginity
by force.
the pedals are silky,
releasing their insides on your outsides.
the sidewalk blooms with rocks and cracks
and so does her image of herself.
the desert air is as dry as her personality,
but the indian blood
flows more heavily
than it does from the cuts on her arm.
but she fakes it.
we fake it.
her spin graces the stage
in a frenzied, intricate pattern.
she closes her eyes.
counts to three.
till time loses itself on her body.