Knee high boots can’t cover up everything.

She steps through the fire just to feel something.

I asked God for thunder he only sent me lightning.

What are the odds that it might strike me?

Finally, I tell myself, 

a glimmer of emotion

that she won’t show someone else.

Pent up aggression kept on the highest shelf,

the lowest holds the boots,

that’s how she runs through hell.

Her fingers, long and pretty,

sharp and deadly,

can hold a pencil, 

but not a conversation,

what a pity.

Even when she speaks there’s 

something her mind keeps from me.

But the sound of lightning 

is better the silence of apathy.

Sexy indifference is sexier when spoken,

because when all her thoughts start overflowing

into passion and wishes

and goals and ambitions,

she acknowledges her pain grows with existence.

Maybe she’ll heal, 

maybe she’ll wither.

She finds life to be better

without emotions,

I think it may be better 

with her.