the powder the black the catseye
the heel the leather the bleach
the d cup the clasp the hiss
the leopard the print the lycra
the button the whiskey the burn

the midnight inside her i’ll have what he’s having

the woodsmoke looks the snare
the breathing girl beneath you

i try not to think of the anthem
they wash their mouths with your name

(it flicks a dial, love
a quick dip in the record and i know where every 
blade in the house is)

we’re friends, right
unholy, right
candid, right
not this tongue. not these lungs. not this flare. not your girl.


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