Mother’s lipstick tastes of blemishes and mirrors, age thirteen.
I dream of moving to Iran while living in the worst best place I’ve ever lived.
I’m scared of war and bombs and kidnappings for ransom so Newark doesn’t scare me.
I’m socially reckless and hopeless at romance.
Strange half humans roam this city, legless women of twilight and drug laced lopers of dawn.
No comments:
Post a Comment