I sit drowned in the pit-stained couch
bog grey and stale like milk without sugar
sewn up and stretched over limp dust bunnies
only a man could pick out.
My thighs sticky kissing clutching wet my neighbors on this couch
I don’t know
I guess we are living.
Through thin smoke
3 men escort a velvet teenager
her black hair oiled stuck around her pretty face like spider’s legs
heavy-lidded in tight black small clothes
and big shoes like bowls.
They lean against the counter, elbows gummed with beer and spit
and swivel her by the chin in their frog hands
swallowing the rubies slipping through her half open eyes
her smile dripping slow like the blood of trees.
I hate teenagers, they scare me.
I watch the four of them, mostly three, make believe talking.
Her smile dripping, holding her chin,
when all they want is to fuck her, I think.
To share her or if not
to own her name,
and chew it into sand.
I think to clap my hands at her half open eyes slipping rubies
but I’m late.
One of the men takes out a gun
holds it to her spider leg forehead
one pokes a knife toward her stomach
one holds a licked match to her back.
The gun shoots
the knife stabs
the fire melts the threads of her tight black t-shirt.
She’s all fire and holes.
And I run.
I run down the boulevard
I run down the street
I run all the way home
I don’t breathe
I shut the door.
On the television
my parents watch
while somebody burns.