sins and golden bricks impale me
i don’t measure before i cut
i listened to you play the piano while i pissed and missed
i came all over your love letters
and a mix tape is somewhere nestled in the muck of the Mississippi Delta
i’m going to build it high, i’m going to stack them,
they’ll be counted and marked as mine,
my fingers creased with the weight of their corners,
my hands will be bruised from heavy alloy pressure.
i tore the silk scarf with my hands to staunch the blood.
it will storm outside of my golden bricks
a hot, dry summer storm that makes the animals low.
my view will be framed by a purpling sky
golden outside, golden around me
and i will listen to the shudder of the bricks
knowing
feeling
they could not, would not collapse.
-C.
camionneuse 