hot garbage

We kiss on the corner of Halsted and Addison, or we corner and they kiss, and I'm thinking in french, of making out where Eiffel Tower collapses -- right here -- and being undefeated because the goal is to lose, carving my name into air and it carves back: into the shape of a map on shoulders that haven't lifted anything, barely eyelids, barely cheekbones, barely sparkly memories lathered across lips, of course "women are bitches," he says, but this bitch didn't think to tell him men are trash; too busy warming myself in the garbage fire, letting its flames lick my parched teeth