the lovedrunk cowgirl

all she brought were motel eyes,

some stolen records,

and a suitcase packed with lies.

but I know I won’t question her.

(I like the way illusion feels).

I like bandaging up her melancholy

and her torn up heels. 

the stage is tilted,

the roses are wilted,

and I’m playing with my life-

answering her questions and

counting the goosebumps on her thighs.

God grant me no mercy. 

I know that it’s my turn. 

I kissed the devil’s feet

and I asked for heaven in return.