poem: stretched across the hotel bed

Stretched across the hotel bed is Axl

Rose with his chin gathered up in clinical

Defiance his arms and legs are

Tangled up in bitterness

And the white sheets which

Still have my skin cells lined into them from

Last night only cover

Half his chest and the other part

Is purely muscle and hard

rock he was so

much crueler in my daydreams

now his lashes half-curve along the silver

plains of an empty laugh I

think his throat has forgotten

the way you can choke

on innocence again

and again

The reflection of my eyes

Croaks nakedly

I have wasted away I am just

a famine

The mirror falls from

Over the rented sinks and carves out

A memory—

A girl about nineteen

Alone in a hotel room much

Like this one

Except the pastel bed is empty and

Only in her head

Are there colors

And empty cities she wants to know

What sex is like she’s

Been listening to too much guitar music

And the louder it gets

In her ears the more

Her soul just swells up

Over her conscious and then she can finally breathe

And touch the little parts of herself if only

She had lived by now or

Done something other than wear

Violet colored sweaters and

Knee-length skirts her

Music only goes on when her mother goes out but now

The hotel room is just silent—both

Of them, only the girl from

Before picks off the lint balls and decides that

Enough is enough

She will go crazy if she has to she’s so

Sick of being a prude and listening

To people who’ve never

Been young and streaked with lush rain like she has If

She doesn’t get rid of the rainforest between her legs

Soon she’ll just

Implode and now—

Look at her, only

Sixteen months later, in the capital city of

Immortality with nothing to

Show for it but

Men’s handprints all over her body

I press her fingers to the

Glass and wonder that the

Mirror is actually still there

Axl Rose is asleep I think how

He could die right now and there

Wouldn’t be any difference as to the

Condition of his soul he’s already

Burned it and

I can’t

Save him and

I told myself this was all just experience—

So I can write poetry about the

Human existence, but my

Words are too self-conscious and they

All know what a liar I am and how darkly I go

Down to the last city streets with

Pink flowers and consider that I

Am in fact

A slut

The girl, again—

She lets Axl roll over without caring

Her hand creaks over the mirror and

She whispers briefly—

Oh Lord,

Why didn’t I listen to my mother?

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