she has a tattoo of a mustang blown wild on her hip. if it lowered its head to graze
her pubic bone the whole room would lean in to feel the muscle-teeth tug and pull. jangle go her silver bracelets sprawled up to her wrists like a million queens lounging. she has black diamonds in her teeth and clear coal in the soles of her soul. on those nights when you’re longing for something, hands fisted in the mouth of your jeans, the drinks coming on heavy because you need something to do with your feckless fuckless mouth, she’s the thing you didn’t know you needed.
her horse laugh makes her the kind of woman everyone wants to fuck and no one wants to sit next to at the movies. when you tell your joke, your only joke, the one about the blonde, even though she’s kind of dirty blonde, and you worry about that even as you begin the joke, she opens her mouth and brays. and you think, oh fuck the things i could fit inside there. you think oh fuck i need to know what she sounds like when she comes. what you don’t see when she laughs is how the black latin tattoo on her inner arm shimmies like a set of silk sashes looped about her wrist. settles like a curl of serpents uplifting their tongues to taste your breath.
the emerald aisles is the color green she asked for and the tattoo guy said like the color of your eyes and she’s mostly not ashamed to admit she did him right there, on the cement floor behind her shimmered curtain of hair and the way his glasses hid the light of his eyes. since then, she’s learned green ink fades fastest of all. her serpent coils yellow across the bridge of her nose like a bruise. someday she’s going to add the proper purple. or get it all removed, wiped like a mediocre memory. she can’t decide. in the now she licks the rim of your salted shot, says she likes rough surfaces.
for weeks, your sheets are a continuous shed of skin.
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written in the dark on the couch.
Time Taken 10 minutes.
Brain on coffee, work, writing, change.