Twisted
It's so twisted
that these men
bash the grips that
marred me,
try to "comfort" me
behind the blinds
of not-so-skinny-anymore
khaki and denim,
it's so twisted
that I am addicted
to their handsome faces
and words
when I know what pocket
they're pulling their
lines from,
when I know it's not my hurt
that they're trying to
unbuckle,
unzip,
shimmy down.
YOU ARE READING
Paint Us Gray: Part 2
Poetry(This is part 2; please read part 1 first!) Rejection. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Grief. Unfortunately, we've all had a swallow, some more than others, of this bitter brew. This is just a sliver of my chapter that is a part of this world's grand nar...
