Never been the girl next door. (First published by Rad Press in Paradox)
Not the type of woman to be called baby girl.
I walk and leave scorched heel marks.
I’ve got half a sleeve of tattoos over scars
more painful than the ink stained art.
But when you said Baby Girl I caved, crumbled,
bent over spineless to hear you mumble it once more.
I was never one to fall for your red wine love:
I’m a bitter IPA. I play with cuffs and pretend
not to like your fingers trailing my thighs or gentlemen
style ties: satin pushing my skin, you whisper Say when
But with you I became effervescent champagne in your hands
caught in glass: bubbling up, pouring over, for a touch of your mouth.