And the thing is if you go
off to your Christian college
and some strange blonde girl
is in your navy blue bedsheets
I can't really blame you because
it's sort of expected at this point.

Listen, the love of your life
is in the car with you,
but I can't tell you
whether she's got a pulse.
Eyes on the road, pretty boy
or God knows she won't.
The love of your life is in the car
with glassy eyes and bloody lips.
She wants you to know
the brake lights don't taste so good
Sort of like nail polish
when you don't have any remover

Good Lord, boy, are you
kissing her or are you killing her?

The woman at the steering wheel
calls the girl her daughter
and presses the gas pedal all the down.
The road is icy, and the thing is
she either survives this or she
doesn't, there is no in between.

There are things she means to be
soft that come out sharp and
                                              cold and
                                                              pointy.
A snake cannot forget it's
fangs no matter how many feathers it swallows
and doves don't come out of their shells
scaly and hissing.

Anyways, the car.
In the back seat, there's a
stolen pack of gum in the cupholder of a
pink and gray car seat
that's been there since twenty-thirteen
and the girl
she never stopped chewing on red crayons.

If the car crashes when she was
happy, does that happiness stain the car red
does that laughter count for something?
All this red can't just be blood
swear it.
If the car crashes and no one survives
to see it, does that collapse make a sound?

Is the universe better off with one less
black hole or worse for one less singularity?
Her eyes shine in the sun but in the dark
they cry. In the dark, they also shine.
Everything changes. Nothing is new.