The lips were the worst

The lips were the worst

Poem by Laura McCullough
Art by Rose Hunter

They bled ink for days, and couldn’t be kissed;
she could barely eat. And swollen like small plum slices,
and she was afraid for a little while, but then it
was alright. He kissed her one night, just on the corner
because he was afraid though he had not told her
so. He touched a finger to the bottom one and then checked;
they were set. What do you think now, he asked her,
and she pouted. My eyes, she said, I’ll do them next. He
blinked. I don’t think I could do my eyes, he said.
She touched the small nob of metal between his eyes. You
did this, she said. That’s different, he said. That’s
the bullet I’ve dodged my whole life. Bang, Quentin Tarantino
to the head. He ran his pinky across his lashes
letting them feather across his skin. He touched the lid. This,
he said, is baby flesh. He moved to touch hers, but
she startled away from him, covering her face, looking
at him through the bars of her black tipped fingers

refers from the phrase “a kiss” in Johnsie Noel’s poem The Judas Horse

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