by Tessa Ekstrom
You have firemen's hands
And sleeves that burn through rivers.
There are lighthouses in your eyes,
They promise they will guide me home
And not to the rocks below.
Your lips once kissed a cadaver,
And when you were young
You painted them bright colors.
Your tongue speaks soft violence,
It gets tangled up on sunny afternoons.
Your throat carries tattoos like a target.
Once, your fingers shot a gun.
About the Author
Tessa Ekstrom is an aspiring writer and undergraduate student studying biochemistry at Portland State University.
From the Editor
Want more? You can find Tessa on instagram @teesaww