There was no needle

to pick up the hell with

So drunk was all that ensued

In every timeline, I was interviewed

by a whiskey-gold noose

Its shining rope stagnant in the air

She was painted shut, hot
like she had a wire to her chest

I tried to suggest meaning

We vacationed in our back yard,
verdant snores coming from our stables

The degree to which I lied
was at first empty

I strained to lie, I strained to lie

An elevator button with
a fiery white face, boldly flickering

Bags and bags and bags of clothes

Only the speed of technology
can speak her name

The rest of us settle
Hands opening the flat handle

of a car crash, hoping for cyclic warmth

I was entered
through violet wrists

I looked from waterbound eyes
at the dark specimens of blood before me

Don’t be mad when
this story ends in money and guns

Like the way they tried to arrest me
for fraud

which I wouldn’t
have committed

if a gym membership were free

Love is how I know I have skin
in the game

Making it up as we go, though
the events feel curated to taste:

getting caught, doing the time

Harleen Seventy is a poet with interests in vampires, devotion, pain, and decolonization of the South. You can find them at @manyh0les on Twitter/Instagram/OnlyFans/Chaturbate.