Angel, 102-degree fever.
Angel, long-gone lavender in a dirty-water vase.
Angel don’t touch me here or there or there.
Can you smell me?

 If you miss your stop. Or lose love. If even the medicine hurts too.
Even when your side-eye, your face stank, still, your heart moans bride.
Fuck the fog back off the mirror. Trust the road in your name. Ride
Your moon hide through the pitch black. Gotsta be your own bride.