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.