how about a little spooning honey
We’ll have no honeymoon or money.
I love the new version of this is, the not is,
the tangle of my fear smoothed by your comb.
We’ll have no money soon & honey
I lost the old version of what was, the not his,
the Angel of Despair away from our bones.
Love, lace my corsets tight so the strings break,
bones ache and rouge my mouth spit shine slick.
In trust I know we coo, bite, bitch. We bait. Switch.
Tender what you want. Gentleman, make me twitch.