Sure, you shouldn’t drink away your sorrows,
but what about drinking to welcome your sins?
Drinking to welcome you in,
like an entering omen,
she already told him,
“You will be bad for me.”

When she strings fake gold
on her gilded fingers, she shivers,
feels the cuts before the simmer
in his eyes, before the summer rolls on by,
before there was a reason to fly
when she hit him. She hit him. She flew. They were birds
on the ground.

The stubble on the tense sides of her head
is coarse on her fingers, when she runs them through, feeling
every strand, knowing every band from the jukebox,
knowing there is no reason to deny them,
she loved the feeling of flying,
the crying after the flying,
the flying. She loved the bruises
and cuts, and the door that he shuts
when he storms
into the sky.


Gripe here!

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