haven’t you heard what happens to girls in heat? those sweaty painted-palmed girls who slide through slick, sick summer days as though light were some precious commodity and traded hands instead of staining their backs
and you, little firecracker, fought fahrenheit with fire, counting the days on your slow-burning fuse, and in the meantime taking those romanticized long walks on the beach holding hands with nirvana stealing kisses from his pockets and ultimately concluding that he was too dry, too serious, too much like thunderstorms without rain, and not dipping his feet in the tide, lest the sand stick to them
so you walked off into the horizon, dragging your worries with you