Deli-meat Teens


we are a strange sort of tribe, these
hazy nights getting high by the riverbank,
touching skin-to-skin, unabashed and greasy with
heat from the bonfire. car crash kids.
we are the children that your parents warned you
about. an orgy of ideas cluster and mate under
the moonlight, cutting through us at odd pale angles,
deli-meat teens. sometimes we see ghosts,
and it's strange because they know our names.
sometimes we come face to face with ourselves, dancing
round the fire like elongated coyote shadows stabbing
through the dark. it's just a silly game. but it's these sometimes
that are the scariest, pupil to pupil locked with
the monsters in our brains.

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