It's a one-two kind of stutter, lover,
and if you can keep up with the words
in my mouth, I'll count to ten and see if your
still looking at me, asking, for the fifth time,
what my name is and if you can call me sometime.
It's the way the music pounds through me, and I'm
sweating out a hundred regrets and swallowing down the
screams in the back of my throat, your hands are on my sides,
trying to hold me still and keep me down and I shake you off
until your palms are blistered from the friction, I am not going
to be your princess, I'd rather be the taste in your mouth that wont go away
and the trace of confusion in her voice.
every time your mouth tries to land on mine,
I bite your lip and you wince, you whisper words
against my shoulder and run your fingers through my hair,
I feed you cocaine and leave you at a party, I never promised to like you.
your wounded looks slip across my face like your fingertips,
unnoticeable and amusing in their naiveté and your two am
phone calls are unheard when his hands are drifting up and down
and my hand is on the back of his neck, the power went out but the batteries
in the cd player keep screaming, I catch the ring in his lip with my teeth
and wash away the feel of your hands with his spit.