Even our names sound delicious:
Pandora, Delilah, Bathsheba, Lola, GildaThey speak of us in the language of pastries—
cream puff, tart, cupcakeThey drool over us, put their hands in our bodies
Oh honey, Oh sugar
as if plunging into layers of white meringueWe dissolve behind veils and trench coats
our faces soon dimming
the whiskey of their tongues already forgottenAround us the scent of orchids and tobacco flowers
bruised and senescent
blooms into the night air, thick with gunfire
— Femme Fatale by Jeannine Hall Gailey (via grammatolatry)
(via grammatolatry)