That girl, by Heidi North-Bailey

She rides side-saddle
into her own clich�
her heart is pumping smoke
boots heavy with things unsaid
sunset flecked with mud

she�s breathing fire
flames curl from her lips
slow-dancing lovers
with cigarette smiles

slink and hips
turn on the clock

and still

after all this time
after so many battered
leather jackets
crumpled sleeps
on strangers� couches

cups of tea
from chipped mugs

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