I lick my
finger tips
to get boys attention.
Or maybe
I'm just getting
a pesky hair out of
my smoke field mouth.
Why go so fast?
Living fast
and
dying young.
It's okay.
I don't care about
what you've heard
or what you'll try
to do.
Would you rather hear
about what this mouth has done
and maybe
where these hands have gone,
dear?
I can tell you stories
about what these eyes
have seen
and I could recite all
the pretty words these
ears have believed.
But those aren't
the ones you want to hear.
And unfortunately,
those aren't the ones
my mouth will ever bare
to snakes like you,
who think they have
already won.