in which she burns her hair and asks if she can be joan of ark

somewhere between seattle and athens, you are laughing & i am struck by the fear of living. is this why you let him cut your fingers & skin your cheeks because i know you’ve never liked bones. you say he was a poet in another life, but we weave the language into gods & he’s already written “bitch” with your ashes, scattered the word across the indigo fields as if the devil cares. he told you to not love anyone until you love yourself, but you can love me until the sky sinks into the sea’s embrace.

babe, burning isn’t rebirth. i know your lies like i know your lips.