I went up on the roof tonight
to watch the storm clouds roll in,
looming in the eastern sky.
A sliver of moon and a faintly glowing mars
were all I could see in the twilight
and the west was a faint blush like
the wine I always make dad buy for me
at christmas and thanksgiving.
The mosquitos were thick
and I could cut through them like a knife
if it weren't for the fact that they gang
raped my shoulders, leaving me as pathetic
as a hollywood hopeful who only has a long
line of "Law and Order, SVU" guest appearances
on the back of her glossies.
"Grotesquely murdered woman
Number 2" or "Serial rape victim." CSI has
more impressive titles.
I
itch
already.
Angry bumps are forming on my
fingers, reminding me how lifeless they have become
scratching away at my skin instead of paper.
I bleed ink.