Maybe if she wasn't busy
*******  men for money
and chain smoking cigarettes
as fast as she can *******
a man and make him ***,
she would see she was beautiful —
without the spandex clothes and heavy make  up.

Maybe

She rips wings off of butterflies
so they can't fly away
and cracks them in between her fingers,
feelings the magic fade.

She slowly dies with each one
and places her black heart in
a glass bottle.

Tell me you love me and bite into my neck, leaving your marks all over me. Claim me as yours. Make sure the hickeys are visible enough that there's no way I can hide them, make me feel excited and ***** all at one. Tie me up, bound me, but don't gag me; I want to be able to scream your name. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me I am yours.

She's got a moving target
and its your heart.
She don't need no cupid,
she buys her own darts.

He ***** her hard,
no ****** on— it hurts.
He makes sure to leave
lust bites, t r a i l i n g
down her back, along the line of her spine.
Then, when he is finished and only when he is finished,
he pulls out, leaving her empty.

He puts on his clothes
and tells her to clean herself up
with disgust,
as if it were a ***** he just ******
instead of his wife.