Shackhoe Girl (running backwards)

(She smiled, talked, streamed about murderous cousins)

How hard it is to hide your secret sadness behind a soft-forced smile, wanting the space to think, wanting her to want you like last night, and now she's fretting about a book, frowning at your ugly toenails, biting her nails, nervous, murmuring, and wondering what you're writing.

She hates your grammar, even knowing you put up with late-night absurdities: demands for booze or cigarettes.

Returning, with her bag, the warning sign, and you know that this writing could probably destroy you.