these must be my roots
aren't i to be
poisoning myself
after loving?
but not a spider,
my honey bee
I will be sixteen
I will let this destroy me
these days it doesn't take much
the pipes are cold
it's there should we be out of breath
demolished,
the waves all crash
who am i to be
when you don't belong to me?
love me
- dolly at school
- She was Lo. Plain Lo in the morning. Standing five foot two in one sock. She smoked in her car and sang to herself. She wrote songs in her head when you took her on dates. She was jazz. She was the blues. She was high. She was not an artist, but she was good at a few things. That's why they still call her. And you should keep reading.
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