We did not live in an orange grove
or a house with a backyard where Boxers run.
It was a car crash, a burn ward
with scars on our souls. Sweetly
we lived in the wreck of felonies
wrapped in rags, we lived-
and the corrosive course we drove
made all the wrecking all the more
Off the cliffs we drove
and on the way down,
I promised to wear you as a scar if I made it out alive.
You lit up a cigarette with all those bruises all over you,
the meridians of disaster is where we laughed best.
Wrapped in the black lists we found our shade.
the promiscuous moon couldn’t lie
and when I was often naked and not with you
I counted on that moon’s truth
to know that you forget sometimes that you love me too.
our disaster would turn festive and edible again
and I would want to stay up all month
living in the volcanoes and the poppies
smoking improvisations of the healed scars.
between you and I
there were no victims
there was just crime
and two killers of the heart
who were good at carrying rosaries and knives.
Who knew when to swerve and when to crash,
when to let the bruises fester and when to hit the gas.
and our long list of disgraceful sins
that often hurt
but often feel so sweet.
When we’re dancing naked on tables
When we’re rolling around in the fall colors of our mistakes
When we’re not busy murdering each other
we are quite possibly
what smuggled chocolates taste like
to the starving.