His favorite thing is to leave you on read and post pictures of his dick online. He’s cutting up magazine pages and smoking cigarettes with his homeboys. He’s getting head on the side of the road from a bad bitch with tattooed eyeliner. He’s driving up the coast and skinny dipping with his cousins and jumping off rocks and sipping on twisted tea. He loves palm trees and chainlink. He kisses with his whole mouth. He makes it bounce. He can harmonize when he sings. Baby princess by his side, that’s his ride or die. He will always hit it harder. Rough trade. Velvet smoke rings. He’s so strong and profane. He’s running game.
He secretly hates the color blue even though it’s my favorite. He likes silver because it’s secretly soft. It’s tensile and lustrous. At dusk silver can change into white if you keep your eyes open. Sunset lays yellow and orange and pink. They bruise each other and bleed into something you can only see. When it strikes the hood of his car, it erupts like a volcano. Yellow tips toward orange and flares pink at the edges and suddenly the light is no longer distant in the sky but an assault, forcing you to salute and cover your eyes. There’s no arguing with it. There’s no winning against the molten golden glare. Night blooming jasmine teasing in the heat. The glint suddenly fragrant by association. It blinds you with brilliance. He fishtails for fun, just to get your heart racing.
He takes pictures of blinding light because they appear like angels in his phone. Blown out white. The sun sets deeper in his eyes. He’ll post it and laugh in your face as he swerves on the pavement because he doesn’t like your body and he literally doesn’t care about you at all. You’re always aware that you’re not him.
The hood ticks as it cools. Without the sun he looks younger. It would make you envious. He takes your picture with the flash on. Your hair all fucked up from the wind. Your eyes half opened. Washed pale. Mouth parted. Waist snatched. He calls you Angel.
Ginger Jones is a poet from California.