In thigh-high vinyl, a platform above you, stomping smoke into halos, palpitations ripple into the small, into the crumbling sheetrock, into the sticker-plastered, into the horse throat, into the water-scared cornea. My wig sweats the nape, creasing the paint at the whole club’s temples. One day you’ll wind up curled in my lap, knuckles receding into a puff of flesh, a whiskey and snot soaked towel balled up beneath you, and all I can think about is the photo I saw of you once, knock-kneed and rail-thin holding your father’s pistol, adults caught mid-laugh, all those blurred open mouths in the background and the curl of your bare toes, looking for comfort in plush red carpet.
scarlet firethorn in my side
