The Last Middle-Aged Baby Doll

You were crafted from smoke and necessity. Bad breaks and broken beds and bent over.

Fate’s unintentional, born again to busted lust. Wisps and faeries swaddling you in jaded armor, more grave than cradle. Utter self-immolation just beyond your grasp, and consistently escaping the bitter poison of warm contentment by just…that…much

Plundered, picked-over, discounted if counted at all. Judgement of your book, not by it’s cover, but it’s readers, turning your pages like tricks. Clumsy, half-hearted head in the alley-way followed by your tightly choreographed coronation at the debutante gala, leaving that other half of your heart on the gilded, confetti covered, ballroom floor. A silken glove, a sloppy rubber and your faded expectations, litter this refined killing field like acceptable loss.

Ride her, cowboy! You’ll buck and bray and fuck and pray, and mask your nights with full throttle and empty promise. But cowboys disappear like dust, like gold claims and feed lots and harlots of well scripted memory. A boy in a hat, a bareback rider, a throbbing prick in boots. Americana, cheap and flimsy, ready for the cameras, you the damsel, damn you.

You paint your pretty face with the baser things, redden your cheeks with the hard velocity of shame. Your claws as sharp as your dry wit, your eyes as wet as your cunt. The last middle-aged baby doll, some assembly…requited, love.

You’ll blow their brains out, tip to base, a tug and a shrug.

“Fuck you! I’ll fuck you all!” mouth your painted, parted lips, but the words never cum.

9 thoughts on “The Last Middle-Aged Baby Doll

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