girl as a weapon
you can tell them about the Girl You Fucked Last Night
but don’t bother calling me beautiful.
i know you mean kindness but i am nothing like a rose
cast aside your pastel prose; i am far too much light
for your grey-tinted tongue.
do yourself a favour: call me power instead.
tell them how my cunt tastes like triumph
and my sweat smells like victory;
how your fingers set me off and how
playing on my skin was the best battle you’ve ever fought
and i might be the most fun you’ll ever have with explosives.
tell them how something in my mouth tasted like silver:
something about my lips or my teeth, or maybe it was
the velvet in my voice;
but either way, you’ve been wrapping your tongue
around rings and necklaces ever since.
you never thought sourmetal might taste this sweet.
what i’m asking is: when you talk about me
talk about your favourite predator.
about how my bedroom eyes are so piercing
you were frightened i might have claws;
talk about how you wondered how soft the mane of a lion might be
and whether it might smell anything like me.
what i’m asking is: call me back on the first night that you stay up
until three thinking about how my skin
feels exactly the way pussywillow might feel
if you could fill it with gunpowder;
how i have bullets for fingertips and you never thought
artillery would feel quite this soft.
what i’m saying is: i hope you knew when you fucked me
that i have lightning in my veins,
and my blood if you spill it
will set ablaze the very ground under your feet.comments powered by Disqus