Flammable

Back doors. Letting out the tits. In rash celebrations. Letting in the cunts. On humble occlusions. She's just a girl. With more words than voices. She's just a child with one more dick. She just an old woman with one less reason.

The engine warned. This isn't even close. The dark. Choking equations. Shit out the algorithms. That seldom find. She was just wandering through the forest. With only the trees as her guide. Lying. Telling the sky she was ready to fly.

Her nylons ran. He chased them. Up and down her shivering thighs. The gas station yawned. They slept together in the faint tent of poison. As if there was somewhere still to go.

She was cold. Firm in her disease. Patterns she explained. The rake of skin across your orgasm. Otherwise it's just masturbation. It's only sex if it hurts a little. It's only sex when we're young. It's only love when we're hopeless.

Everything else is just broken people. Stumbling as they do. Gas can in our throats. Looking for those matches.