The silver heart swings from her teeth by a chain

she is afraid of his eyes

and his lips

and his hands she wants his hands right through her hair
she will wear lipstick if he likes suspicious marks on his shirt collar
she wants to give him the heart, the silver one, for his trophy box
to see him smirk with lips pressed together and make him look at her again
again again again she whispers
I don't love you, but I want you
he's a terrorist with souls, she hears, hard boy alcoholic weed-smoker eve-teaser
she wants him for the shell, not the soul, she wants him for the
pewter shell with hickey-shaped scratches along its throat
and if he says to her I'm going good, kid, she'll shrug and say
You're too beautiful for me to care.