It's that smell of last
cigarette
on your clothes
the hole burned through your white cotton
tshirt, pink lipgloss on the cuff of your sleeve
where has she been kissing?
I shouldn't care.
You're sixteen, seventeen
eighteen?
You're too old, you're too young
i'm the little sister, aren't you suppose to be
worried
about me?
It's a lullaby now, a song of return a
scent i associate with family
smoke
sweat and
sugar.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
It's that smell of last
cigarette
on your clothes
the hole burned through your white cotton
tshirt, pink lipgloss on the cuff of your sleeve
where has she been kissing?
I shouldn't care.
You're sixteen, seventeen
eighteen?
You're too old, you're too young
i'm the little sister, aren't you suppose to be
worried
about me?
It's a lullaby now, a song of return a
scent i associate with family
smoke
sweat and
sugar.
(c) Brooke Otto
