Sour

She had the kind of face that said “slap me”
onyx eyes and a sour disposition
with a, I’ll-beat-you-with-my-bible, self-righteous philosophy
that wasn’t up for debate

One hand on my thigh, a look of
don’t-you-fucking-dare, in her long lost eyes
that spoke riddles to those of us
that had never met normality

And I’ll never know why she was touching me
or why I could smell her chap stick breath on my face
while my lips sought the lips of another
her hair covering my slightly panicked eyes

I'll never understand why she whispered damnation in my ear
as she dripped beside me in heresy
her hand on my thigh
with my hand up someone else’s skirt

She had the kind of face that said “slap me”
and creeping fingers that made my skin crawl
in all the wrong directions

© Indie Adams 2012