"Emmaline," you whisper swiftly and it echoes in my curls,
"come on, baby, don't fret."
(It's cold outside and you've got your slimy fingers
pressed against my nylon jacket.)

PRESSING. PRESSING. PRESSING.

"Madame, are you alright?" The slur of cake-y, false sincerity.
The plaid-coated-figure could care less about my personal well-being.
"Sorry, just out of it this morning," I smirk as I collect my scat-tering thoughts.
I can still taste you.

Stoned, stone, ton,
on my shoulders.

Blamed, blame, lame,
I am.

Fantasies, fantasy, antsy.
So small you should step upon

this problem.