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Swagger with a curl,
eyeballin' that girl from highlighted tips, nape of her neck, line of her tits, curvy hips, right down to boots made for walkin'. She keeps talkin' never missing a beat but she can clearly see his position of authority turned her body, her person, into slabs of meat. How neat. Nice to meet you, too, creep.
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I will devour you.
Just like my whiskey. I will infect you, just tryin' to be me. I'll cry to my God and wish for no rivers for her to drive in. Seat belt buckled like good moms should I'll wish I could just devour you. Long lay the wait.
Frantic layers stripped, years in the making. She took the bait. Soul-starving, carving out her niche. He, with pretty boy bed dreams iconoclastic puritan screams juxtaposed in a soul twisted, broken. Long lay the wait. Ghosted. Unspoken. She with hopeful trust and a lust for connection wanted to hold the line. In good time. Blocked. Barricaded. No detour in sight. Ghost in the night. Baby cries, mental anguish. Other fish. What would Jesus do? |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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