Ivy

Yearning is inherited.
She stares at the delicate skin
of her wrists, searching for signs.
That beautiful blue falling.
We buy Hershey bars and street maps,
sticky fingers tracing the roads
between us. Collect bottle tops
and unicorn stickers.
How I nudge them closer to death
with my fingernail
when they begin to peel.
How the scientists say
we can never really touch.
Something about electrons
and porcelain shoes.
Mother always tossing her hair
and looking away. Troubling us
with her sad stories
of Mercurochrome and cocktail rings.
We take super eights down to the lake.
You film me in my bra, the look
in my eyes daring you to harm me.
Our lovely drownings
as we try to swallow the stars.
The livid-red coals of our cigarettes
like fireflies in the night.

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