She was a ghost, in heels.
She was there, then she wasn’t.
She would play with my emotions like a well-played guitar.
Then she would disappear. Making me want to strangle her.
Maybe she wasn’t a ghost, maybe she was the giver of sin. Because we sinned every time we touched, every time she was near.
Her lips were shaped like a heart, deceiving you at every word.
Her body was created straight from my fantasies, one I craved to bend to my will.
Her heart, well, who the hell knew. She kept that shit locked tight.
And I couldn’t find the key.
T.L Smith loves to travel, loves to shop for books, sometimes shoes ;-)
Don't be shy about contacting T.L Smith, she doesn't bite, hard!