The subtle whishing
Of flowing gasoline
Sets the mood;
An ugly, teal-colored,
German-engineered insect
Rolls up to the pump
Alongside mine.
I note the empty car seat
Cramped in the back
As she steps out,
Her balayage-curls swishing
As she flashes me
A cursory,
Carefree smile.
Grinning stupidly back,
My eyes gloss over;
Déjà vu grips me and
I search my memory
For her face—

The insect scuttles off;
My tank is full.

the gasses in me bubble
my head cloudy
blood boiling
i'm not real
but i'm in real trouble

the girl with the cupid's bow lips whispering into your ear that forever is in the drink that you weigh on the heaviness of your palm when you feel nervous and you think no one can notice
but i notice
don't look back or you'll trip into the things you were supposed to be falling in love with
tell me to rely on blind faith and i'll make sure to keep my eyes open during your family's prayer circle during Christmas
i want to open all the fruits you accidentally let rot in your kitchen with my bare hands and tell you that things die so there's something to feel afterwards
i wish i could explain myself in the same way a hand that twitches might also tremble and the reason is never very important
i want to package all the poems and give them to you as forgiveness
as an apology on too many amphetamines
like the ones we took one night and ended up at a desolate gas station and feeling that in that moment
all time was spinning in a wheel waiting for me to reach out and disrupt the movement going on since i could speak
but i was too distracted on all the candied wrappers with my name written on them
so i spoke too soon and the cigarettes fell out of my purse and you said that life was in all the lines in our skin like that of a tree
spinning
spinning
spinning

Hazy
Hard
to
see
through

.

Clouding
your
vision

.

Unable
to
think
through

.
­
A
gas
that
if
left
on

,


can
and
will
burn
everything
down

.
­
All
it
takes
is
a
spark

,

and
your
life
is
gone

.

Corrosive petals lingering on stems
                              of faltering breath.
For the air smells sweet,
underneath the carcass of pollen.

Three words held in masks
                        of suffocation.

Innocence stands there,
         would you like to smell
                              our flowers.

Hollow eyes, hiding smiles
            within breathless voids.
They pick them for the scent of death
is always sweetest before the demise.