Girl of the year
Faux lashes, little arrows to the heart.
Cradling her sternum, bleeding so kindly.
Love knows where to aim.
I'd tell you I'd run marathons, only for my breathing to become an enclosure.
I'd tell you of the wild things in my head and you'd laugh and say "my home is not a quiet place for rampage."
I'd respond, only with frowning eyes, ears perked for an apology from the mouth that hurts.
While you'd stay empty hearted, pouring it down the drain.
I apply lipstick to chapped lips, rubbing blush into the cheekbones of the girl of the year.
You can spot her eyes in the many who gaze.
They still taste of her, reek of her perfumed haze.
And yet as girl of the year, no man could love a woman so ablaze.
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