Parking Lots Are Where It Begins

you can bury wooden nails

in every bone of me

touch my nerve endings

press down

pour salt on an exposed heart

dress wounds

haphazardly

press down

on muscles moving

beneath

maps

marked

with Xs you haven’t found

 

the way is obvious

you are but to follow the girl

she will take you far

further than you have ever dreamed of going

if not

your heart

will feel sand

mixed with salt

your heart will feel spurs

to flay & trace

on paper

in soil

placed

wherever it lands

when thrown

like an empty bottle

from a parking lot

for the epicenter

is large

spread out around here

full of shards

 

so careful where you step

glass will cut

like a heart

broken

by a girl

as she pulls away

from parking lots

where things are left

on the ground

haphazardly

& thrown.

 

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