windowsill

I would like to live off the bad things. Perhaps, with time, I could become one of those girls because I'm fascinated by the undertow the silences, your eyes perhaps I could cut it out and send it to you place the knives in their glass display cases next to that photograph of you, the lipstick I keep meaning to ask you about. You are holy and I feel it's because of the dirt in your hair the home movies of black fisted boys with eyeliner that's perfectly applied neck to rope and hand to heart and it makes no sense and all the sense in the world when we are between the roads, how we turn ourselves in handcuffed and spitting fea