suck on this

Saxophones are amber glazed city lights finally giving into the first muffled sob,

             sheets crammed in fist crammed in pink wet mouth,

Crying pink/wet 

about some sick boy who smells of cigarettes

the swallow tattoo tastes of salt and brine,

                                                                                            Shoulder blade/teeth/sharp/minor/key change

 

This is the proof we needed to know that the woman who loves too hard

/much/often.

[The single task of waiting has now become an act of violent disrespect towards oneself.]

She is not a little girl who was simply unwrapped into grown up clothes.

She is brass and fingerprints and all things haunting

and I am her -- the wailing alto,

asking the streets if they have your forwarding address. 

 

This song was intended for you,

In case you didn’t know. 

 

& even the damp reed can splinter. 

Megan is an emerging writer with a passion for 80s pop, staring at the sky, and denim. She currently lives in Seattle with two black cats that still don't know if they get along.

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