BY EMMA KOFFROTH
You smell cold,
And feel like
I will grow sick of you.
My stomach will turn over
Like a prostitute
In a decrepit
Lying down on polyester sunset leaves
Twigs scratching arms
Like a month of grey, low drone, burnt orange, pleather downpour.
My eyes will glaze over like a pond.
Fire leaves too frigid to handle,
Too old to grow.
Emma Koffroth is a native Angeleno with the fantasy of living in a desert cabin. Months of isolation is her dream. She believes in spirituality and female energy.