Honey Rivas smokes cigarillos delicate
burning olive branches
living in her bruised hands dying
in her angry lungs she
buttons her collars to the top
button and wears rings
on every finger except
her left ring finger which
she protects just like her mother
told her to she wears
the small cross against her chest to save
her from herself and her tired
hands decorated with plastic nails that
scratch when she tries to pull
others closer to that unrevealed depth
shining sunken out of her brown
eyes that look hazy out upon neon lights
in the darkness she sings
sad songs punctuated by a dry cough a dry
martini gracing her stained hands with
twisting fingers pinky promise cross your
heart and hope to die and Honey doesn’t know
whose heart she’s crossing with those ruby
dagger nails and that sterling silver
cross weighing heavy as she stands too
long in heels on the wrong side
of town with the boys who ask her to bum a
smoke when she pulls those fragile lengths
of familiarity out of her bag with a stranger’s hands
shaking to the erratic beat of
music blasting too loud from the building she
stands apart from waiting at the door for
herself to come out
because she lost her in the crowd inside