She's a butterf.l.y disaster.

Lips like strawberries, the pucker of her lips leaves you feeling bitter, needing fixes of heroes & heroin.

She lifts you up high but brings you down (a bad love story with a ripped out ending)

She's the thing dreams are made of,

& you're never really awake, eyes glazed and tripping

Love and other four letter words spill from her mouth

(An inadequate way to keep you addicted to her practised moans & the burning taste she leaves in your mouth.)

She's that itch you can't scratch, leaves you shaking, rainbows of colour swirling behind your eyes. Regrets p o u n d ing in your head,

Voices that were never your own screaming, screaming

It's ironic how she can f l y a w a y ,

& You can't.