our hands smell like smoke but we weave flower crowns out of our lungs & wear our vices with a smirk

into our palms 
and slips 
through the cracks.
we curl our fingers 
paper-palmed cigarettes. 
in the middle of the open road,
we look up to the naked moon in worship. 
every act 
of destruction 
makes us feel like
a God.
we pray 
to ourselves
for the ability to dream. 
there’s a crater on the side of the road.
there’s a bridge at the end of the sky.
hold my hand. 
let’s walk. 

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