Bad Love

She loved you like three miles of bad road
the kind of love that peels your skin back
and hangs on you in strips of stained cotton
where the sweat beads up,
or gathers deep in your pockets
with lint and black jujubes
and grows twisted with no air.

She made you believe you were her savior
the kind of guy who crashes cars
in cemeteries at night
while angels play strip poker,
or paints masterpieces with his eyes sewn shut
and reads her body
like a blind man at church.

She pulled you under her low tide
the kind of place where you can walk on water
as long as no one is watching
while she kisses your scars
and studs your frail, white body with leeches,
begging you for forgiveness.