a pink house next to a sun yellow with swamp green trim. I drive past road kill iguana, road kill raccoon. I've counted six in the last two weeks. it's the half moon crazy fuckers fueled up on red bull and orange juice. It's the black top and salted earth lit by headlights and tourists drowsy from the sun. they come down from where it's cold, from some place else. sometimes i think that's where I'm from. not the cold. just some place else. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, ... pastel houses and road kill.
I think it's the heat that makes everyone so crazy, makes the women so kinky down here. fisting, spanking, spitting. been there done that. fist fights and bottle rockets. the days are slow and the nights dance with the glimming hope and fear of anything better. But is there?
It's funny, i remember those nights meeting up in some dingy motel room, pulling at each other clothes with the longing you only have with strangers - when the only parts that matter are the ones you fuck with. freshly shaved down, if i thought about it, it's almost comical. who the fuck were we kidding? tattoos, sweat, and empty promises. sometimes, I still think i own a piece of it. If i call her name that girl can probably still hear me. she'd have to, anyone fucks you like that..they own you. now, you see what i mean about the heat?
The girls down here... smile often. they sleep to the right side of the bed, they drink bottled water, green soda, and blood.