The devil drives a Mustang. Sinks crooked teeth
into Coach Purses and Haagen Dazs. Pinkie
swears and Snapchat filters. You
are an octopus tentacle on grease-stained
linoleum. The unnamed image in front
of a Polaroid. Your loafers are square
and geometric. Onyx. Glazed
in stringy bits and aphid innards.
I saw them yesterday
when you trampled on my me too.
Picked it back up and combed it
through the oily prickle on your chin.
Your breathy clouds spoke: slut. Tossed
the word through the air like an emerald.
Like you owned it.
You are a pine needle among matchsticks.
Eclipsed. Concealed. I don’t know how
to say fuck you any more eloquently.
Melissa Weiss studies Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia Okanagan. Recently, her work has appeared in Prairie Fire, The Maynard, Sky Island Journal, and elsewhere, and placed second in Into the Void‘s 2017 Poetry Contest. Melissa co-edits One Button Press in Kelowna, British Columbia. Her most recent chapbook, Don’t Fall in Love with a Poet, was released by JK Publishing in 2018. Visit her at https://twitter.com/melsince93.
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