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I am navigating on the metro, a city built inside my veins. The needle loads the tracks and my day launches through red skies traveling to Oz. These buildings hold ghosts and scratched corners, bedroom closets, and hotel bathrooms. A toothbrush cleans the doorstop to a flushed purple, but tonight the spins are scraping down to muscle.

When we met, I was sitting on the steps of abandonment and filth, clean skin and a dirty mouth. I played good girl– bad girl–little girl for them, bought back my church clothes one gram at a time, pretended to be an actress who togues Hollywood when the smell made my teeth melt.

When you come inside my arm, the blood becomes torrid then affectionate. I fall through the floor and throw myself into your amber gold. The spoon hits the table and the needle hangs under a band of aim and pressure. The night moves into my weld lines and my eyes find the dust of rug burns and Marlboro filters.

He’s standing over me and giving me directions to a place I find in the dark. His pants unzip, and you brush my hair back and tell me, “This is love. You won’t even know where you’re at.” When morning sneaks under the door, I find you waiting with breakfast and a clean spoon. I flip the lighter wheel back and kiss death on the open lips. You drown me in black tar crystalline and white noise. I’ll give you my last twenty dollars if you make this last.

About Ara Harris

Music junkie, Atari 2600 bringer backer, word maker upper, loves to photograph and write about suburban decay. Ara grew up on a corner lot in small town Ohio. She began escaping the micro minds of the Midwest by listening to music, watching b films, and touring the cities in her mind. She wrote poetry on the back of algebra tests and asked Lou Reed to take her to prom. Two decades later she self published a full collection of poetry that one reader described as “a Tom Verlaine riff in every synapse”. She believes that we all have a gift, we just have to find it.

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