I'm a careless sort of girl, ripped lace
and torn stockings, bright violets bruising
my china doll smile. I'm not very careful
when it comes to choosing dark corners
to hide in, or the softest beds.
I don't care much for those preposterous
notions that bubble wrapped kisses taste
just like cheap thrills. There aren't enough
full moons to offset the boredom of quiet
spent evenings with paper and pen.
I'm a careless sort of girl, cracked bones
and black coffee, cigarette burns on the
clock by my chair. No alarms in my head,
no fear to be mortal, but sometimes it seems
life drags out too damn long.