She lay there in her daddy’s cut-off jeans,
Skin creeping across the sheets.
Not one hair of hell could hold her,
Not her, the black sheep of the pin-up girls.
The pictures grip her scent,
Every inch of her worth dying for
To know that your time will come,
To see what happiness is worth.
Miracles rest on pillows,
Have fathers that disapprove;
Miracles are worth the danger
Of the leaving the light on
When the rain drains your face.
Black and white, a 50’s film goddess.
Another’s eyes see her
Sing life away, headed west
On the last ticket for the roadrunners.
The promises you’d make,
Worth the poison you drink
In the ink spilt for her:
Watercolours, sketches, the only howl
To tear your heart apart.