Miss Independent

They call her Miss Independent
Her delicate fingers have a hard time
Being entwined in someone else’s
Her wallflower lips are not ones for dancing
Her hair falls in a way that can’t be touched
Her ears don’t like promises

They call her Miss Independent
With her get back stare
And her skyscraper walls
Her ink stained skin
Reflects her tainted purity

They call her Miss Independent
She doesn’t get addicted to anything
But cigarettes
Because the taste of hell intrigues her
She keeps track of lovers
With the marks up her arms
Goodbye’s come just as quickly as hello’s
She breaks hearts
In the same way her father used to break beer bottles

They call her Miss Independent
Eyes the color of honey
And sugar coated daggers for words
It’s a losing game
That she has down to a science
She may taste like salvation
But you won’t
She’ll get you drunk on her whiskey heart
And leave you with nothing but a hangover

They call her Miss Independent
She doesn’t fall in love

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About savannahlyn

I write to articulate what my tongue cannot
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