“They call us killers, honey,
I say with teeth clenched around your jugular.
You’ve got them graveyard hands,
nails dredged up from diamond mines,
bones screaming bloody murder.
I wear combat boots and only smoke Camels,
like how you look with a noose around your neck.
Teach me to breathe poetry in the hollows
of your spine, bruise my name down your back.
With teeth made of cigarette smoke
and wrists of chewed leather,
I keep you perched on pretty legs
in the passenger seat of my father’s old car,
radio turned to love songs we never learned to sing.
We weren’t made for that marrying kind of tender;
we kiss like addicts hungry for a hit.
We are fighters, not lovers –
poets who plot murders and get drunk
to find God or our mothers’ ghosts,
spend all our time applying assonance to bar fights.
You’re good for alliterations and throwing punches,
you keep the boys hungry and on their knees.
I’m not good for much at all, baby,
A useless kid with knuckles bruised from living –
Killers, honey, killers.”—This Is What They Call Us |d.a.s (via zuckonits)