this is the last poem about N. and then i'll move onto better things

you would have to be here
to see her,
the way trees force against
God’s filthy fingernails,
the smell of her
hands, pink, on
my arm, feeling the
veins trailing down like
rivers. man, she has
amazing legs, knows men want
to fondle them, knows she
catches their eye.
she has men in her
ploy
feeling their hands against
hers, her breast, her
long stares, torn down by
a mundane kiss done silently
within eyeless walls, bled
white, rose petals ripping their
lips like a knife to butter.
and if you knew her - man, let me tell you,
you would
die catching her down
Hell’s long, dusty arms.