her mouth is an addiction.

maybe she has a lithp,

maybe you like that

rolling accent of FUCK OFF

that carries across in

the negative shape of her

arms akimbo,

eyes glazed over with green smoke,

mouth in the angriest pout

possible for a cute little

girl like this.

she waves middle fingers

like lollipops,

daring another 20 boy

to stare out windows

at her swaying hips

just so she can have an excuse

to swear like a war vet.

smoke is an addiction.

it fills her open mouth like

mint spray: newport menthol

pours out the window

in empty clouds full of

carbon dioxide. maybe

you like that purse of

glossy lips as she exhales

sensually, kissing empty air

with a face full of sour

endings. she breaks up

with boys before they cheat,

kisses them before they speak,

hurts them until they're bleeding.

she dares the world to fuck

her over, and they take her

up on the bet.

alcohol is an addiction.

it pours until bottles are

empty, she chugs it like

there's a gun to her

head that pushes into the

layers of dark wavy hair

tangling down her back.

maybe you like the

stumbling slow formation

of words while her eyes

struggle to focus on your

waiting face. she doesn't

need to play spin the bottle,

but she empties them

anyways. the anger shows in the

broken glass shattered on

the floor, fracturing her

tan into blood and beauty.

she wants an excuse to feel


she's an addiction.

dancing to the loud beat

of someone else's car,

blowing smoke in the face

of every boy since fifth grade,

dazed over with

greens and liquor. this is

an anger that attracts love,

kleptomania of the soul.

she detracts from the

sorrow of the gutter, spilling

tears of hate into

ashtrays, lying her way

into another set of arms,

another set of wheels.

maybe she wears thongs

maybe you like the way

skirts look on her ass,

but it's the raw sex

in her mouth

that you want.

her mouth traps you.

you're addicted. obsessed.

and everything about her makes

you know it.