concealing sadness and piety,
letting her smile be a surgeon's mask,
as she cuts up any room she enters.
in the airport, she is better than blow in the bathroom.
in every place she is more stupid than poison.
at the end of the flight, we have all seen better names.
she kills rows of books with elbows,
her hair flowing with favor and car wrecks,
haunting men who want her but can't catch her,
and I am may or may not be one of those fools.
she is smarter than she lets on,
pretending indifference between books,
knowing her favorite song but not saying it.
is this my life? and is she in it?
a character treated as a saint or an artist,
my memory starts to wander on,
remembering different blowjobs and distractions.