Urban Fantasy / She Drinks Lies for Breakfast
and if she wears leather pants and shows her ass on the cover, it’s because
someone talked her into it. With a handful of bills or pills or poison ivy.
That sword isn’t the one she carries; it just photographs better than her
bloody knuckles, seems sexier than the butter knife she sharpened for
her boot. You can only see the iceberg tip of her tattoo; it winds around
her bones, the red-framed dragon that ate the moon, the wind in the lilies,
the man who spoke her, the venom she spilled and licked up off the broken
femur of a goddess. That story about the demons she wrestled is mostly true.
And the one where she became Hell’s bride. And the one where she almost died.
She pretends that one is fiction. You should too. In the city diner, everyone looks
when she walks in. Those leather pants squeak, the sword’s too big, the waitress
thought she’d be taller, the cook thought she’d be meaner, she tips too much,
she talks too soft, she doesn’t take her coffee black. In fact,
she’s a cream and sugar kind of girl. She likes the way the crystals crunch
between her teeth, likes the way the spoon swirls edges of ceramic, and
the way black and white push at the edges of each other, like tentative
lovers. Like fighters who don’t know how to begin a kiss.
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written at Jewel Box, with coffee and song.
Time Taken five point three four minutes.
Brain on the sweetness of men.