How easily you sucked it in. Rolled my flirts into a big fatty and lit it up with those blue-red eyes.
You passed that glassy look back to me.
I’d heard you were a Disney girl. Heroine without family. Beauty begs for beast in a custom tux, desperate for PG kisses.
We got high on coming on. I blew “This is for reals, Princess” into your pink promise-ring lips.
Your sisters wouldn’t sit still for it. You were always the one pulling scotch away from Daddy. Johnny Walker breath, filthy red and white Santa in the chimney.
They wouldn’t sit with drunk in front of DVDs, vicarious Cinderella or Snow White or Contemporary Strong Young One Of Color Waiting For Her Prince To See She’s Been Right In Front Of Him All Along Wanting Him To Protect Her So She Can Sleep A Hundred Years Away.
You sat and smiled but never pleaded “I want a pony!” at Christmas time.
You waited, with your mouth closed.
“My pony will walk right up to me,” you recited to your pillow, “intoxication in his maple bulb eyes,” the satin rope from his halter held by a handsome talker, who opens your mouth with a wet red apple of his own.
Curtis Blazemore has been on the planet far too long, publishing various works in between having bad luck and making people rethink their faith in humanity. No matter. He sees sentences in the exhaled smoke and scribbles furiously. He hopes someday to be able to afford a Greyhound bus ticket to Graceland.