Tonight you burn through the neighborhoods out to the open highway and you grip the blue roof of your car from out the window. The music runs in the spaces between your ribcage. You will get home in six hours. Your throat will be sore, from the bass, and from your silence.
You are a long way from salt water.
There is a boy out on those streets somewhere between the streetlight circles and the dark that surrounds them. He’s a boy with a tongue like the handle of a knife. You want to reach inside and see what you pull out.
You are heartless. He is heartless. You both have bodies of strangers, bodies of thieves. Long after he is gone his handprint will be a cuff on your wrist. It remains an imprint on your palm.
He just wants to put you in his mouth. He wants to swallow you whole.