the evening that calls you out

you want your fairy tales
neat like firewater
wearing upturned glass skirts
that won’t tumble unless you say
but the beckoning night
that chills the corners of your bed
know different doesn’t it?

the evening that calls you out
understand there’s bigger wolves
than the one you construct
to sell those tickets for you
tickets to you showing parts of your ass
hiding the places raw and ripped by bad choice.

will you
let the poison
you sip in compliments clear
like highball glasses bleed out?

or will you sit
and pretend the evening dusk
isn’t calling you to change?


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