she's the volcano in my bedroom and my heart, a chandelier made out of fireworks that had burned all night in a flame-race, howling upwards
she looks better in one of my old t-shirts to my stretched-out eyes than i ever would in a ballroom gown, i was not blessed with the bust for a corset, with all my life throbbing in my throat
under my sheets, groping she is an octopus wearing lacy crystals who has tasted a man's flesh and collapsed in a slither at the charred-out caves in big, good America
after a hectic twenty minutes she is honey-pale and falling into empty light shivering in my bed-boat her hair slammed back against the stern, the spray scything upwards
as much as it may seem like it, this is not about ******* a girl in the middle of an epileptic fit.