write a story

“when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
.for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved”

( “oh you poor lonely girl” )
ghostlike hands skittering across piano keys in the dark
felt out not so much by touch but by heart.
the little king sits and reads his bible
while you smoke a cigarette on the balcony,
nicotine stained fingers curled into fists.

t.s. eliot, “the little king” and the birthday girl, carnival lights, porcelein dolls.
thumping and lurching beneath the floorboards. dream of kings and underdogs,
“the king is dead, long live the king!”
we’re all just gears and pulleys.
the freckles on his cheeks match the constellations.
skeleton hands grip wayward ghosts
trace the veins on the map.
“big star states spit big stars” etc etc.
mirrors sown into your pockets,
under the sun we’re all just pillars of salt.
the language of crickets.
teacup ciphers.
the shadows creep on stealthy fingers
they’re always brightest in the light.
his tongue tastes like a trigger.
and his neck was curved,
( etched burned and shaped )
to fit her palm.
natalie marie and 1cc
save your life, fuck and flee.
voodoo girl hung on lonely strings
she’s like a drawing you’d tape
to the front of your refridgerator next to the grocery list-
curved and focused, outside the lines.
hair not blonde or gold
but crayola yellow
the type of girl you fistfight petals with
“she loves me, she loves me not”
but love has nothing to do with it.

sapphire eyes, pearl teeth, ruby tongue. blood diamond skin. fabulous clockwork of lungs veins and heart.

himerus and eros, knotted around your wrists.
curtain up, spotlight on, break a leg.
candle wax, “little king”, hollow men with violent souls.
this is our town, where safe is just a state of mind.