do you think he sees me as just a pretty face?

after wafflehouse

12:15 am, march 1 2018

told me he liked me in my little night shirt -

you know, the bitches love the rubik's cube

and adidas black shorts.

said he loved the way i wore it so long,

but told me he liked it better when i took it all off.

wouldn't let me drink flat coke,

knew just how i liked it - to snort.

drove out at 3 am so i'd drink it fresh,

a real gentleman - a real one, the best.

sang about fame in his blue pickup truck,

got jack and coke on the rocks for when we'd fuck -

said he was a bartender down in key west,

and he makes my drinks just how i like them -

strong, full of zest.

nearly all honey jack with a spritz of coke;

we'd watch schitt's creek

though really we only spoke.

we met under bar lights

dancing two decades in the past.

a black mirror thriller i could call it,

the kind he couldn't watch.

but he's a veteran, baby,

he wears his red, blue, white.

he tells me i'm eastern european sorcery,

the kind that he likes,

and i do magic for him,

twirling spells in my hair without the lights.

he said he liked the way i danced -

but when i kissed him it was better;

knew he was trapped now,

the way i could let my tongue flicker.

i'm casting spells on him, darling:

the darker, the better.