My girl sniffs gunmetal
while she listens to heavy metal
on top of
rooftops and junk shops.
She smokes when she bathes,
believes her version of aromatherapy
Her legs in the water are pale and
flourescent, like lined lights sheltered by
snow frozen into hail,
but she likes it golden-brown and
“like a 7-and-7,” maybe a whiskey
She pops one for her baby,
says, “we need to get high, boy
because someone like me,
I am to die for.”
We were rolling around when
she found ash in the drink and she drank it
when their voices were too loud
she shut them,
said, “this is not a church,
not a coterie,
it’s a stab.”
She screams because
it seems it is all she can
and will do,
so she doesn’t fight back.
Instead, she holds herself up above the concrete and
she straightens her back.
To her surprise, she found that she was
my lungs fill rather quickly with
I am weak, even after a week.