He was a Christian, a good old gasoline boy. He jostled over to me, swaggering and telling of what layer of Hell I could end up in.
SCORPIO: You’ve brushed so much under the rug that it’s become noticeable. There’s now a lump to avoid in the center of your floor and the only thing left to do is confront it.
does not provide
the perfect conditions.
This poem will not absolve me of all my sins or even scrub me clean but I am turning the faucet on
you are more
wars and storms
that your skin
You smile, and your mother asks, “what’s his name?”
It can only be described as a shard of glass piercing your heart.
it’s been two years
since i last saw you,
but i’m still writing
poems about you.
You’re sitting in between two boys and you love both of them. They look through you, the glass window in a burning room. It’s ironic that panic buttons cease to matter when everything’s already up in flames.
there are 38 missed
calls. the window which looks out
into the street is closed, and for
no reason at all, you spend the
afternoon looking at the shadows
but if train A has stopped writing love poems and train B is still sending drunk texts, when do the they meet?