Bad boy, mad boy,
with knife-fight scars on his arms
and a lazy gaze that knocks me to the wall
and freezes words upon my tongue.
I want to run.
But God that voice.
Like the rumbling of a restless earth
echoing my own discontent.
He is six feet, four inches of walking danger,
with too many tattoos, scuffed boots
and bricklayer hands.
Pure bass that pulls me to the ground.
Down, down, down,
to the hunger buried deep,
where orange and red seeps
and pulses between us,
hazard lights flash
a warning clear as day
while an arrogant smile whispers “stay.”
I want to run…
but can’t decide;