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saige Mar 2018
crimson spray paint
chipped off the
dinged aluminum frame
our dear friend
"the steel skeleton"
daddy rigged that go-cart
to push forty
felt like

mercy, we charged
wild onions
bubbling sun
rope swing
whipped, weaved
clothesline posts
threadbare tires
churned the dirt
that'd raised us

you squealed at the turns
of course you did
i was wild back then
burning rubber
cross clover patches
racing crows
and then the bats
until those holes threw us off
the ones our dog had dug
the ones we never thought to fill
once we'd buried her
beside the barn

whack!

ching and crackle
we'd been flipped
fumes all around and
on the motor
steering wheel
clamped my leg to pedal
i shook it off
but the buckle
mama had installed
did its job and
trapped you there

swoosh of blood in my head
and heat closing in
i found my feet
our crash site ignited and
flames lost their lustre
once they brushed blond hair

crimson sprayed
over dandelions
dribbled from your chin and
as i screamed for mom
for dad
for god
for you
i swore
to never drive again
and here i am, nearly 20, having never had a licence.
saige Mar 2018
often i long for
the years we were kids
because all folks would ask was,
"aw, are y'all twins?"
oh, we were tickled
but nope
just brother and sister

now, that we've grown up
yet haven't grown apart
everywhere we go it's,
"aw, are y'all boyfriend and girlfriend?"

oh, brother!
we must be destined to laugh
saige Mar 2018
moths and pinecones
oil pans and barefeet
and we weren't drunk
we were only young
dancing in the driveway
in a lantern's spotlight
to heart and soul
and auld lang syne
and i'm sailing away
one of these nights
saige Mar 2018
she was one of those people who
rode her bike wherever she went
and wore butterflies in her hair
and ate everything with chopsticks
and laughed more than she talked
and shouted, "oh my stars!"
when heaven knows what she really meant
you know, one of them
saige Mar 2018
there comes an age
which i have reached
in which i love
to take my turn
at making Mama
laugh like a
little girl
saige Mar 2018
she's a siren
in a wasteland
a tantalizing ebon-eyed angel
gloved in lacy little bralettes
cloaked by burnt hair
she lures, lulls
lashes curled
fingertips cold
while the world shifts and spins
she stays, a gravestone
her shape, the muse of every rave
from shakespeare to sheeran
skin, a minefield of goosebumps
freckles
and velvet
and that cookie cutter heart
inked into her collarbone
(i knew her before that, once)

before the toothpick cross
on her viola-neck-of-a wrist, too
plus the piercing in her naval
before those crystal charms that just dangle there
the ones her exes line up
to drop off
each april
before they slip into her bedroom
slide into those cheetah-print sheets
same ones they wove their
seeds and sweat and sins into
a handful of ages ago

amidst the haze that haunts those troops
i witness lust
a black hole masked by magnets
stained with cream-ridden coffee
reeking of mary jane and cake batter chapstick
(i gave her lip-balm for her birthday, once)

evermore and nonetheless,
armies drown themselves in
airport perfume
lilac bottles she trades her tickets for
because free spirits can't afford to both
stay in
and smell like
paris
thus, she stalls
until she passes as graceful
but zeus knows she can't settle
only lounge on her six-foot teddy bear
another birthday gift, another admirer
who isn't a secret as much as forgotten
(i almost forgot her, once)

i witness
the men on the moon march through
that war on mars, then straight into
a venus fly trap
goodhearted guys, who
could feed her the nile
from a golden spoon, who
would lasso stars and conquer nations
at her whim
become tumbleweeds
by the dozens, who
have offered that girl everything
begged her for the pleasure of ensuring
she never wants for a ****** thing
but what's it worth when all she wants is nothing?
(i kept my distance from the infection, once)

she's the one
who left her virtue in the circus
her victims in love
her past, inside plexiglass mirrors
her mother intoxicated
her father in the ground
her car crashed into a tree
but she's not complaining
she's just calling life as it happens
to waste her

(i kissed her, twice)
when i was 16
saige Mar 2018
when the photographs magnify
the good times with the worst
when they smear and blur and wobble
and it's too hard to see sepia
for what it was
for what it's worth
hold those snapshots
craddle, squeeze, caress
like babies
like a dying woman's hand
like shadows of a past reality
let the dams break
let the bawls rock you
to sleep or to insanity
whichever comes most
naturally
cheeks will tattle
via burst blood-vessels
eyelids may be swollen
for sunrises to come
your voice, gone
but it won't matter
no, not as you wonder
how many people
have wept themselves to death?
i wrote this at fifteen. should i be ashamed to say i can still relate to it?
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