i've got these names that you probably can't say to my face

because they're a testament to love, to life, to memory.

but, baby, i'll let you know what they're for.



she's a teasing pretty girl, long brown curls and eyeliner framing green eyes,

glossy lips and too-tight jeans. she speeds on the highway and summer is her

favorite season (alcohol and drugs and boys). she trades phone numbers and

smirks coyly, mouth caressing newport cigarettes and blowing smoke in your

face. she makes you moan and gasp and her tongue makes you addicted.

she's crack cocaine in a tube top, nicotine wearing flip flops. she's illegal.



now, this one's a ghetto bitch, fur coat collar and high heels, miniskirt and

perfect makeup. she rides the train in cold silence with a cigarette tucked

behind one ear, hoop earrings swinging with every jolt of the track. she wears

bracelets and chains and her boys are all bloods. the concrete feels like

home and she loves the stares she gets from the ghetto boys.

she's gunshots ringing through her teeth, knife wounds in her smile.



this one you can't quite handle, a hands off girl wearing sweats and a beater,

running like the pigs are after her, sweat dripping and music too loud to comprehend.

she tries not to smoke and her sneakers pound on the treadmill like too much

coffee, she stares down the boys because she knows she's stronger. she vomits

in the ymca toilet for lack of food and she knows she's skinny enough to

wear short-shorts and look damn good.

she's violent sweat in her flexing muscles, dirty knees in her tight back.



she speaks three languages but doesn't need translation because she's got

a mouth for that, tongue flicking as she swallows down vodka in la france,

the boys love her swaying portuguese hips as she traverses les rues.

and she finds a way for touch in her sleek swept-back hair, shining in the

four am streetlights, high heels clicking on cobblestone in a

sensuous drunken dance of les bisoux. she doesn't kiss and tell.

she's smashed glass in her eyes glinting, spilled rum in polka-dots.


so, baby, maybe you understand now, i'm just an addiction:

crack cocaine lit up as a gunshot rings

and you break out in a violent sweat, smashing glass.

you can call me what you will, but i'll never change.