she passes her
fingers to her lips like a “hush now”
like a savored hit, (not the drug kind) without a real
care, or passing for air,
without her eyes or coarse hair
she sputters when you
ask her about the time she nearly
climbed up the face of a seaside cliff,
“monty tells people everything
(that’s just a lie!)
he’s got himself wound up pretending
to be someone he’s someone he’s not, pretending to
know me, those stories are a known facsimile”
maybe she’s glimmerimg in her bathtub
simmering and soaking in a bath of pink bubbles
but you’re afraid to touch her,
she clings to you like daggers,
maybe she’s too much for you,
maybe you should stay safe for now.
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry
Golden Star Poetry 