A pale face from my past orders a whiskey and coke.
His crooked grin gritting ice as his callused fingertips crawl up my femur.
With a gasoline flavored tongue, he asks if I want to take a ride.
The blaring sirens of warning blend with a carousel of city lights.
A sizzling ignition fires up, a speed so fast you could only laugh.
We didn’t make it three miles,
before our skulls cracked against the glass.
Fractured headlights glisten over tiny shards like fallen stars.
Asphalt abrasions covered our flesh.
Two souls left two mangled bodies.
I plead with God.
He only had three, no wait, maybe four.
The unforgiving roads knew we’d never make it out alive.
Katey Taylor is a San Francisco Bay Area based writer. Her recent work has been published in Dark Winter, Fauxmoir and Brave Voices Magazine. She’s published two novels and is represented by Serendipity Literary Agency. Visit her at www.kateytaylor.com.