A piece of car fell onto my head when I refused to believe in it. The gore was autographic.
The gore left a sore which I worried at my desk, with a tiny pink hairbrush and a math set compass. With a pair of slippery scissors. Without pain. For temporary decades.
There is someone named Kevin in all of my classes. He has a smooth neck and black greasy hair, and I can see from my desk that he wears glasses and eats his lunch in the computer lab, under tables.
His gaming habits, pornographic.
And as the car-song inhabits, I look for clues under his desk and nothing there is autographic.
You probably didn’t know this, but I used to hide
in the trunk of your car.
I saw myself as a gorgeous outlaw, putting on my makeup
and touching my red lips to the gun barrel. It was too dark
to see my reflection, but I knew how well my eyebrows
waved hello and how
my thumb would look inside your mouth.
How you saw me was different- I know
like that girl who always wore the same t-shirt
day after day,
with a picture of a moose on it only instead of a moose it was
a picture of two people who are both halves of a horse, but keep
missing each other
day after day, oblivious
to the threat of extinction.
(and you never knew
and no one asked, ever)
While you were at work
I tucked my legs up into your perfect shoulder blades
while you looked for the right paperclip
which is the wrong color
and you will always be looking for it- I think
that if you wanted me to hold the pages
I would meet you halfway
I would stay in the trunk
and you could take me out
whenever you wanted to.
(I wouldn’t hide)
and if you’re ink and shadows here
high and in the city
then what it must be for that whale
a still form adrift
in the empty, choking ocean