There were people at the bar where I was born
but I don't know them anymore.
You were the image in my head when I was born.
While they folded into each others mouths
dropping stained teeth on the floor.
Then, I saw you in the park when I was four.
You burned like a cathedral door.
I went back to where you stood, when I was five,
all the trees leaned into windows now.
Dripping stained gla** in my eyes.
Then, you touched me on the arm when I was nine.
My fingernails cracked with colored lines.
And I used that hand to write until I died
you walked me back into the bar
each new hair dancing with lice.