They Come Out At Night

My words are not always milk and honey. They are not trimmed with lace and wearing Grandma's pearls while stealing kisses in the rain. They don't want to hold your hand anymore. No. They come out to play when I least expect, each syllable a trick in the making, each word whoring itself for a penny or a nickel or even just a glance from that beautiful stranger across the room. They wear their tight black bras, and mourning shawls; they drink like men and smoke cigars. Hooting and howling as the moon begins to rise, they wake the neighbors, and refuse to go unheard.