They’d sit and smoke in the grease metal
Shadow of his Dodge,
Black leather and loose hair.
He sold her chords from the curves of an ’88 Fender
And she swore she’d patch his holes tight
With steel strings.

He thought of her that night.
Home alone, silence screamed louder
Than teenage punks, weighed heavy
As the steel barrel to his throat. Hardcore—
Like deep bass, like bruised veins, like
Live Fast, Die Young.

And now, she curses him every
Fold in her face-- five shots to the hour
Falls harder each day. They laugh,
The boys at the bar who don’t wash their hair,
Stare as if she’s too old to love
A rock star. And it’s too late, she thinks,
To die pretty.