sheila, you saucy motherfucker

I’m tired of girls that smell like dead flowers. She’s been at my window, tapping for hours like rain with soft hands but I never come and in the morning she taps for another, new man. I’m tired of living in shadows or rocks. I don’t have a head for commodities, stocks seem so well to elude me and leave me confused. Whatever it is, I end up feeling used and transparent in front of your parents and friends. Where is the girl with the fingers that mend and the eyes that reflect light like cats’ in the night. Where is the girl who knows left from right. Not wrong, wrongs alright. Wrong is just fine tonight. She appears at the top of the stairs and the sight of her flame addled hair and her butterfly hips is nearly enough to cause me to slip back to moments of darkness, dead flowers, and spring. Moments when I thought she meant everything but now she’s a story I tell over drinks. She’s a face I think of throwing up in the sink, with her butterfly eyes kissing me with each blink. Everything smells like dead flowers now. The butterfly died when it couldn’t get out. Dried wings or petals, I have no doubt you were here sometime once but you’re not here now.

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~ by perfectionatrix on December 21, 2008.

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