She’s walking down the street
in a pair of six-inch, red, patent leather heels.
She always wished she was
taller.
She shaves off her eyebrows
and paints them back on.
She’ll be the first to tell
you she enjoys the attention—
She’s okay with that.
‘Damn, I wanna fuck this
girl,’
he thinks to himself as he
follows her home,
the Boston streets slowly
becoming narrower,
fewer streetlights scattered
in front of the old, brick row-houses,
thick, circular patches of
light surrounded by shadow.
He can hear her clicking as
she walks.
She walks fast.
She knows where she’s going.
He could hear her clicking
only half a block ahead of him.
“Damn, I wanna fuck this
girl, yo.
Yo honey, with the fat ass!”
She stops.
She turns.
“Me?” she asks.
Softly, ladylike.
The voice he wants her to
have.
The voice you can fuck, and
still muffle with only one hand.
“Yeah you mommy—
You wanna come home with me
tonight?
You looking real good, girl—
I wanna fuck that ass of
yours real good, girl.”
“Me?” she asks again.
“You wanna fuck… me?”
She wears her tits like
panties,
She’s got tits built for
warfare, this girl.
She’s a battleship,
unsinkable by nature.
Scars from girlhood across
her thighs,
Wears short skirts so they
wonder where she’s been.
She’s been… everywhere.
She walks back toward him.
“Yeah that’s right mommy.
You know what you want.”
And she does.
She knows exactly what she
wants.
“You wanna fuck me?” she
asks.
They’re face-to-face now.
She notices how dead his eyes
are.
She knows how many girls he’s
seen ripped apart,
Lying under him.
“You wanna fuck me?”
“Yeah mommy.”
She remembers fourteen.
“You wanna fuck me?”