T.L. Smith

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.

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