And they over-analyze the way I swing one hip, he called me a ******* temptress
a misguided teen with roses on her cheeks and her mother singing "Heaven Dawn, what's that flower you've got on?" while she ignores the fact that her precious daughter is picking her every petal and using them as her favorite chaser.
God, I want to be 7 again, when potions were real, and boys with leaves for eyes were only in the back of my mind and not feeling me up in the backseat of a car that's not even mine.
In reality, I drug him back here, I'm tired of cold beds and Bacardi chasers of sleeping pills, ****, I just want to feel.