The Predator
Remember your little pinafore?
You were sixteen.
I? Twenty-Four.
Now here you come through that door.
I spill out of my dress and on to the floor.
Lap up the moisture like a dog
So you may quench your thirst.
I become a sultry fog.
And on this mostly perfect night
Of my mostly miserable life
I mute the garish city lights.
Your pure childhood fantasy;
You'll soon hate me;
You'll see.
Copyright © Anamika N | Year Posted 2012
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