her long long hair gets in the way of her walk.
side stepping along the sidewalk,
concrete looks good against her skin.
and her smile is a memorable trait,
mixed somewhere between porcelain and black and white tattoos.
in the realm of you.
you, lying on the floor
are male at best.
and numbers fill her eyes wide with surprise
but she loves the taste of blood
and cannot wait to kiss her right there
in the wound.
where pain ceases after care is given,
if only for that moment.
my god, she is beautiful.
she is a stranger.
she is not.
hardly having a name,
it is downtown and there are buildings that resemble the mouths of open mothers,
and stern stern (oh very stern) fathers.
and a sister and a brother
is to whom she owes her illustrious point of view.
"are you calling me callous?", she asks me in a state of repose.
"why no, how could i ever use that word and your name in the same sentence?", the me (who was not the me, not the actual me but the self maybe a year ago)
and then blood on the ground.
coming from your mouth.
the traces on my knuckles,
the tears on my sleeve.
"you should be careful, dear. you live your life as if it was a weapon", I said to him.
"how else are you to live it?" he said as he was brushing his teeth.
but keep it coming