Shielded

I felt a little safe in his arms, 

the skin-dry nails that 

picked my scars 

and bled the thick beauty 

of missing bodies. 

The known yesterday, 

gone tomorrows, 

dissipating cloudbursts 

faded against rosy-cheeked 

flashy words and 

a grey pavement. 

Where the women walk. 

A street lamp 

sarcasm 

spotlight starlet, 

Monroe in a bathrobe, 

backpack on her shoulders as  

she tumbleweeds along the street. 

Scents of softly brewing tea 

coalesce with the 

traffic. 

One word, one thought, 

someone could have said  

her jasmine feet were 

not worth so much as the 

sky. 

Look away: 

their lips are close like 

seashells 

and tongues as numb as  

pain. 

Bloodthirst drips from their fingers, 

the people of lost apathy.