Fifteen and wasting,
given away to
weekends packed in cars
in the backseats
with our headphones on
I am not who you think I am.
Bucks preyed upon,
we spent four years
or something like that
and I was always
waiting to live free.
Beer cans of smoke,
crinkled in the garage
thirty-five degrees
this is a dry wine.
Shaving for the hell of it,
touching upon the sacred
don't tell me how to kiss.
He knows best
nevermind where is his car
this blood will be safe in him.
