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