Nero

we park somewhere
a trap of green gasses 
idling, a sun roof
in the trunk

I see black dots in
front of your body
like stolen art
one thumb through your jacket

the other through
a burned CD
we should 
burn everything

or we never should've
stopped. all the grass 
and scratched 
instrumentals

silver halos revolving 
not gold or god, but 
rainbows that 
complete a circle

there must be a hole
for needing to be better
and hating yourself
through which it leaves