Shoot each other in the chest while wearing bulletproof vests.
Pull out your tooth.
Tie one end of a string to a doorknob,
The other to your front tooth and
Slam the door.
You’re always slamming doors,
In my direction.
Read from the same worn, leather, brown bible.
Because the only thing, you said, that can save us now is if Christ himself
Descended from heaven
And made us say our sorries and force us to hug.
I could braid your hair too tight
Like so tight,
Like so tight
I can squeeze dialogue out of the brown ropes.
We could write love poems
One line each.
But I worry my lines will compare you to a stained glass angel
And yours would compare me to an atom bomb in a china shop.
We could touch each other slowly.
I’d have to prepare my cast-iron suit.
Your hands have been sandpaper these days.
I could melt peppermints all delicate on your inner thigh.
I could drain the moon of its milk to give it to you as a birthday present
That the other women could never give to you.
Not her or her or that one or the other one.
Leave hickeys on the pads of your fingers.
Shove tiny nail scissor blades under each other’s fingernails
Suck the blood
Spit out the blood
Examine the blood as it is a Rorschach test
I see butterflies.
You see corpses.
I wrote a poem a little while ago
Called “How to Eat Your Lover.”
We’ve moved past cannibalism to straight incineration.
We are setting each other on fire every night.
It isn’t the heat we were used to,
Smoking bed sheets, the warmth rocking us to sleep.
This strips your skin in layers
Burns so hot, you’re too stunned to remember how to scream.
Pour the gasoline.
We could pour the gasoline.
Anna Allen is a queer, Black femme living in Oakland, California. She has read at various slams and shows around the Bay Area such as Get Lit, LitQuake, The National Black Arts Conference, and Quiet Lightning. She has been published in Sparkle and Blink, Chronically Lit, The Scriblerus and Track Four. Her work can be found on her personal website, https://annaallenwrites.wixsite.com/website.