Allsorts of Stuff


She who reads your message then doesn’t reply, she who seems up for the crack but then never get’s back, she who expects you to chase but still wants space, she is the one to be wary of. Not the slutty dancer, the local bike, because with them you know where you stand, well clear, away from the drama. She is hopeful potential with a hint of instant catastrophe, a  mocktail with a hidden shot of absinthe, the lie festering beneath her well veiled eyes, she is everywhere, she is her who doesn’t know what she wants.


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