don't know... but here's another revision of a section. still writing stuff, so that's um.. something.
bobby's best friend stares at an image of a girl so hard
a village in the Congo, like this one minus the jeans,
bursts into flames.
he can tell from the way her lips crumble when she smiles,
they're made of ash.
from the way she disappears,
he knows that loving her would be
like holding a lungful of smoke,
but he wants to say none of it matters:
the sniper in her glance, the graveyard in her chest,
even the wrists she treats like an abortion,
because fire doesn't die, it sleeps deep inside,
waiting for a cup of monday morning coffee and a whisper
to tickle her awake, saying, "it's time. let's get to work."
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