The Wrong Girl

the wrong girl squeezes herself into space, your space. with a blind spot face and a body too stiff for free spirits she works out a system of lies- a dwelling for her kind. there are things you turn your eyes from: not fights, not violence but a woman's nakedness in the eyes of manifest destiny. her lips like due eggs crack from within, they harbour a song but, the wrong girl never sings instead she spits cold water, and returns her tongue to its coffers- there's so much the wrong girl covers the wrong girl is an ******** on the body of time, the plumage of nightfall. she is a song, an anthem ready to fall off the lips of dumb men. she wears misery like a second skin and never dares to peel it off, everything that leaves her tongue sounds like a curse. when the world asks why she wears pessimism like a djellaba she tells it, "no woman lives well with death breathing into her ears."