her.

There was something

about the way she parted her pink, contrived,

testified lips. Polite mannerisms.

Dressed in demonic black, studded

pearls. But that didn't matter. Along convicted

ropes to relinquish the manner-

of which, we're all construed. The links

between your contorted crossed legs

and aged, ashed limbs. But I never

knew the convictions in sense- with the neon

blue flashes in her eyes that always

got you high. In the flow - the external

stream that whisks like I'm drowning

in my own spit.