marijuana sex tornadoes

in an earthquake
the safest place to be is under a doorframe
but in a tornado
the safest place is in your pants.

but of course, i'm a symbolism kind of girl.

there is
a wild and torrential exhale of
marijuana smoke and
poems of desire against
your lips,
they all fall through the cracks in your smile
filtering through the other bullshit,
creating a soft yet very unsafe
storm which i am determined to get to the middle of
at all costs.
i'm a heartbreak junkie.
you lean back.

you lean back, i follow. the bed squeaks and
it sounds so much
like my name
(or a late invitation).
your hands fall
like a guillotine down my pants
i am wondering
if even lucifer fell from grace,
how i ever even stood a chance.

i don't think we exist then
i think god shut his eyes for a few hours and turned out the lights
and called for us, a game of hide and seek
that might not ever end.
after all, how could we hear him over
the octaves of this sin?
we're not children, our bodies are
full grown and our minds
are surely older than that, but isn't it fun
to pretend?
my eyes are closed, too, god.
if i can't see it, it might not hurt in the morning
when he leaves.