Want

I’m a flaming drink
in the Tiki Bar, set
to catch your hair on fire.
I’ll slip sugar in
the gas tank, bleed
the brake lines
of your sports car.

I’m dagger-eyes
and pouty lips,
strolling past you,
mouthing asshole.
I’m the bitch in six-
inch stilettos, stomping
on your heart.

I’m the ground glass
in your foie gras,
the mold on your croissant.
You think I do but, honest,
I got nothing that you want.
Yet when I call,
you will respond.




A Year in Ink, Volume 18