south of nowhere
Two miles south of nowhere there is a field of dying things,
silent save for the rasp of autumn grasses as they crash to the ground.
There is a girl here, too,
running a pink tongue along rusting guitar strings,
all ripped jeans and cloudy skies.
A man's name is tattooed across her clavicle,
blue ink pooling at the place her breath catches.
His name was Agony and he taught her to love,
to hold kitchen knives to heartstrings and pluck them like a symphony,
dancing barefoot on barnwood floors
until the splinters left scars.
His love was one of honey and shrapnel,
the kind of beauty that only comes with pain-
but the world is growing dimmer
and come dusk
she lies alone
in this place of dying things.