These wooden doors I carve out on Friday nights
Turn to gravestones under the Sunday light.
These violet hopes I hold in my bottomless pockets
Grow engines and shells, then turn into rockets.
The pit in my stomach tells me money is sacred
But only if I can imagine them naked.
The scarf on my neck gives me scars so bloody
I curse the cruel gods who created my body.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 