she looks at me like I’m a memory
and she traces me with drowning eyes.
I am twenty-seven in her passenger seat,
carving scripture into my thighs.
she kisses the scar on my forehead
and speaks my name to the moon
to venerate the parts of me
that were born too old and died too soon.
I light the joint she rolled for me
and we get high on borrowed time.
I told her when she met me
that my dreams have a way of turning love into lies.
through the things that keep me breathing
and the violence that I’m feeding,
there are few gods that I believe in-
the tears that she cries
and all of her demons.
the lovedrunk cowgirl 