by Anhvu Buchanan
There are cracks in my head. No safe houses in sight. I am stuffed against my will, hung high up against the wall.
A gas tank half empty and miles unaccounted for. Driving late at night I retreat to the hills, work out my problems with the sea.
This is wednesday, this is closest to the bone. I scatter ashes on the mirror not on my face, you scatter ashes on your face not on my mirror.
Another open parachute, another empty stomach. I read your letters. I raid your fridge.
My mousy lip. Quiet little things. You are as lethal as a shoelace. I come as I please.