Before we get to the poem, Id like to give a little information about what a persona poem is. A persona poem is a form of poetry in which the poet writes about experiences that they have never had before. The author takes the form of or rather embodies a "persona" that they create or take muse from.

Cold Engines

I am not myself.

I rub my right arm with my left, chilled to the bone,

and warmed half-heartedly with empty kisses.

A broken phone, and a hot bowl of grits before me.

I lean my head back onto the old vinyl booth,

two glasses on the table.

One filled with beer, and mine with tea,

not sweet enough to bring a smile to my face.

Scrubbed clean, and makeup just like he likes.

I breath in but still feel still, so still.

So present. So aware of myself in this moment.

He comes back, sits, stretches in his taught shirt.

Muscles inked with dragon scales as he hands

the waitress a hundred dollar bill,

that surely came from guns, and midnight runs.

His eyes meet mine, telling, telling,

a story of a thousand words, cast green, the color

of the liquor he drinks. and, the smoke he sells,

Im wrapped in expensive clothes, and, standing

in the same shoes that bind me to him.

Glittering red, tall, so I cant run away.

We leave the diner, he opens the royce’s door and helps me in

his hand gripping my back a little too low

reminding me of what he sais is his.

I can't cry, for I sold all my tears.

It was my fault, for letting him put the red ruby shoes

on my feet, not knowing that even clicking them won't help

me, as I have no home to go to.

The engine starts, bringing,

a soft hum between us.

As we pull out of the greasy drive, desert waves roll outside

of the window, reminding me of my dry tounge.

He puts down his sage and blows

burnt kisses to my neck, says he loves me,

and places his hand on my thigh as he speeds past the dried earth.

It's easier said than done I think, as I lick my lips and kiss

his cheek in reply. Its a religion I don't believe in,

a Goddess I don't worship, a church that i give no tithe.

To those dealing in love, a drug hybridized long ago,

no pure strain exists anymore. Legends of

sacrifice, and unconditional dealings, those are

storybooks I closed long ago. When I

realized my father’s voice was a record,

and my mother’s gaze was wavered,

and my own love was relative

to how I feel waking each morning.

My red reflection in his rearview mirror

no longer wept for the losses I felt.

Nor cried for injustices dealt.

I realized the first or sercond time

sitting in a bath ran cold, that

these things dont matter.

Whether empty or not this artificial word

matters the the writers of my scripts.

Whether or not my kisses are warm,

his breath is cool, our minds in tune with out bodies.

the car engine wont stop until one of us cuts the key.

Dimming lights in the concrete fortress, a hundred expensive

peices of metal sleeping here. Ive gotten used

to the expensive wines and unpaid fines,

quiet telephone calls as I bathe my apathy away,

and swallow the elixirs to subdue any inner arguement

my last sanity might arise.

I braid my hair in the ways my grandmother taught me,

and step onto the balcony

floating in the night sky.

I see the cares, values and standards I wove for myself

drifting further away in the wind, further away by each second,

by each step I take toward my silken sleep, I will,

No doubt,