There's dirt in his veins, and i know this. that's why i'm here.
to be caressed and loved by muck.
he promised that when it got too violent behind our eyes we'd stop sleeping and we would walk through gas stations and truck stops instead, picking up more muck for our love.

and when he cuts his wrists on the bone of my hip, i'll let him cry and bleed for all of those promises he made but will never keep.
i'll take the crushed lightening bug off of my finger and press it to his lips, whispering for him to keep quiet.
it doesn't matter any longer.

he'll want to scream, of course. he always does.
but i'll slip on my suicide blue dress--the one as soft as cancer
and tenderly dry his tears with my kneecap
and leave it on the bathroom floor where it ever belonged.