911

Content Warning

Call my number, 

dial that nine one one. 

I’m still waiting for those sirens, 

red and blue streaking down my slummy streets. 

The stage has been set, 

the pit’s siren notes, 

but still you’re giggling in your musky room, probably rocking yourself silly 

as you reminisce in that lil cradle, 

clutching your phone with wide eyes, 

holding out hope for april fools. 

Or maybe you’ve realized the strings on your limbs,

a lost puppy frozen after being played, 

stuck in the ditch you dug yourself. 

Shaved beard and filters, oversized tee, 

hiding your potbelly, you think you’re slick, deep in your fantasies, 

and sure, “16 ain't an issue, princess”. 

The actor realizes, his line stumbles midway, this

ain’t improv girl, a playwright puppets this stage. 

I’m so into you, it’s still fine. 

Your secrets are safe with me. 

Your text bubbles are still there, on and off.

The screen bright against a dimming world.

Why hesitate? You must be mad. 

Maybe law’s on your side, the state of things. 

9 

1 

1. 

The sirens gonna be whining cross town.

Still waiting. 

C’mon now, don’t be shy. The final act has

begun. The curtain’s falling, better hurry up.

If you don’t dance, I’ll steal the stage. 

You don’t want blue collars barging through your door, right?

Your precious pills gonna get some red-blue light, 

Powder lines gettin some patriot flags, 

Crisp Washingtons crumpled and dirtied under the stage’s neon spotlight. 

You don’t want that, right, 

babe?