Boom chacka boom chackka
Boom chacka Bow wow
She’s got a cross tattooed between her shoulder blades
and a mouth that could make a preacher forget his own name—
picked me up outside a dive bar in a car that smells like cheap tequila,
cheaper perfume, and zero shame.
Says you look like trouble,
I say baby, you look like a felony waiting to happen with lipstick on,
she laughs, hits the gas,
and we’re doing ninety down a backroad with the headlights barely on.
She’s got rosary beads hanging from the rearview
and lingerie under her leather jacket,
tells me she quit church three years ago
when the choir director couldn’t handle the racket,
says she still believes in something holy,
just not the kind they sing about on Sunday morning,
I say amen to that,
and she climbs over the center console without warning.
She says touch me like you mean it,
I say baby, I don’t do half measures,
she says *good, because I’m collecting sins tonight
like they’re buried treasures.*
We’re doing backseat theology,
hands on the scripture of her hips,
she’s confessing all her favorite vices
while I’m reading her body like apocalypse,
the windows fog up, the suspension squeaks,
the radio plays something about salvation,
but we’re too busy conducting our own private investigation
into damnation.
She tells me about her ex who was too polite, too clean,
too afraid to leave a mark,
says she needs someone who bites back,
who doesn’t apologize for making noise in the dark,
I tell her I’m not boyfriend material,
I’m more like borrowed trouble with an expiration date,
she says *perfect, I don’t do relationships,
I just do really intense mistakes.*
We end up at her place,
which is basically a mattress on the floor
and band posters covering the walls,
she’s got a collection of empty whiskey bottles
lined up like trophies in the halls,
kicks off her boots, throws her jacket,
looks at me like I’m dessert and she skipped dinner,
I think this is either the best or worst decision I’ve made,
knowing damn well I’m a willing sinner.
She says I don’t do gentle,
I say good, neither do I,
she says let’s see who breaks first,
I say baby, let’s fucking try.
We’re doing backseat theology,
hands on the scripture of her hips,
she’s confessing all her favorite vices
while I’m reading her body like apocalypse,
the neighbors pound the walls, the bed frame cracks,
someone yells about the hour,
but we’re too busy worshipping at the altar
of bad decisions and destructive power.
At three a.m. she’s smoking by the window
wearing nothing but my shirt and attitude,
says you leaving or you staying
like she doesn’t care either way, just matter-of-fact and crude,
I say what do you want,
she says I want another round and maybe breakfast if we survive,
I say you’re fucking crazy,
she says yeah, but you feel alive.
Morning comes with regret for normal people,
but we’re laughing over burnt toast and aspirin,
she’s got my number written on her arm in sharpie,
says call me when you’re ready to sin again,
I stumble out into daylight
feeling like I got hit by a beautiful truck going full speed,
already planning when I can come back
for another dose of everything I don’t need.
We did backseat theology,
hands on the scripture of her hips,
she confessed all her favorite vices
while I read her body like apocalypse,
no commitments, no apologies,
no pretending this is more than what it is,
just two heathens finding heaven
in the temporary bliss.
Boom chacka boom chackka
Boom chacka Bow wow
Boom chacka boom chackka
Boom chacka Bow wow
She texts me three days later, just says tonight?
I don’t even hesitate,
grab my keys, check the mirror, head out into the night,
because some lessons you gotta learn again and again,
and she teaches the kind of class where everybody wins,
even when we’re drowning in our sins.