But when she drinks and flirts she pronounces it, Lizzzzzbeth , extra pouty red lips and breath on the TH.
Cigarette in her left hand gin and tonic in the right.
Two revolvers tattooed on her chest…
The tattoos over her heart won’t keep it from breaking.
Nor will they lock it in when she tosses it out to yet another unworthy soul. She hungers for intense intimacy.
The kind she writes about… lips pressed, toes tingling, hearts bursting. Breakfast in bed not for a day or two but forEVER.
Someone that will look into her sobbing eyes, puffy and snuggled by the slick dripping mascara and eyeliner, and tell her she is not crazy.
Hold her close and whisper, “you are greatness even in falling . . . ”
She needs the whispers to never end.
They can’t be there one day and gone the next.
She can’t bare the toss about.
But who could bare such a burden of carrying her to self worth when she burned up all her energy on the nurturing of others that she forgot, yet. . . again. . . to save any worth for herself.
So she keeps tossing out that heart.
Hoping for Super human.
Hoping he’ll come in the form of eternal smiles and forgivable flaws.
So, no one like her.
No one with tattoos to keep their heart in.
No one with eyes puffy day in and day out from the need to feel.
No one with yellow fingers tips from smoking and aching guts from drinking.
No, no one like her.
No one like Lizzzzzbeth. . .