by Nick Gisburne
Your smile. I like. It sparkles in the light,
A sleazy soup of glitter, polish, paint.
What shade? What stain? Electric. Wicked. White.
A twisted chic, extreme but simple. Quaint.
You’re not the hybrid model I prefer,
The mix of moods, the no-mark nonsense. Cheap.
But someone flipped a switch and said, “Send her.”
I’m happy. You’re the type I’d like to keep.
I know I’m not allowed to know your name,
But give me something. Secrets. Show me ‘you’,
And, if you cheat, I’ll take it, all the same.
I understand. The lies are nothing new.
Your dealer sold me sixty minutes, yes?
I’ll need it all to kill you. Kneel. Undress.
