The venom that dripped from her lips
was that which you wouldn't expect from such an unassuming girl,
but she spit gasoline and her tongue had the treacherous tell-tale taste of sulfur and flint.
There was no way of mistaking that fire that coursed through her veins
and caused her pulse to whiplash anyone who tried to prove her wrong.
She hated condescension, and arrogance, and the smell of her hair after a shower,
but lived recklessly for sunsets
and stargazing and
sleeping with the window open,
just in case her heart decided to go skinny-dipping with the man on the moon.
She was all wrong for me,
and even worse for herself,
but I've always been attracted to fire,
and this girl was a wildfire with a death wish and a bucket list
that included, "Fuck the president behind a 7-11",
and "Arm-wrestle Jesus".
She was what my momma called "the wrong side of the tracks",
and my preacher called "the devil in hiding",
but she never liked church much anyways,
and I don't think it really suited he