kalischild

(It's been a year, and it evolves.)

She.
She is fierce.
She asks questions.
She wears half-gloveses.
She has good tattoos.
She has been to India.
She bites, sweats, and screams during sex.
She has a Texan accent.
She cooks for fun.
She doesn't start fights, she finishes them.
Her eyes are huge, blue as ice, green as limes, or so brown they are almost black.
She loves Yeats and hates Nietszche.
Shes got a kung-fu star as a bodyguard.
She is sleek and tawny.
She can't decide if 'Music for the Masses' or '101' was better.
She has worn white flannel trousers, and walked upon the beach.
She reads. Books.
She uses Atom Bomb as a soundtrack and a manifesto.
She pretends the sushi is screaming while she eats it. Sound effects and all.
She drag-races at stoplights.
She laughs out loud.
She throws gang-signs during rap songs.
She understands that boys need to feel pretty.
She wears a garter belt and fishnets.
She plays with knives.
She's twice the bitch I am.
She's half the bitch I am.
She owns Bowie knives and a cowboy hat.
She can weld.
She smokes cloves.
Given the opportunity, she would cheerfully beat up Sylvia Plath
She has the softest lips.
She is wicked.
She leaves presents.
She takes road trips and has Floodland in her car. On cassette.
She is not afraid. If she is, she's afraid for you.
She has an old leather jacket with a pair of handcuffs on the shoulder.
After a week in the desert shed kill for a steak. And has.
She thinks True Romance is the Best. Movie. Ever.
She drinks wine and whisky.
She does not chase, or run. She dances.
Her absence is why Im hunting.
Her existence is why I still hope.
She will find me, or I will find her.
Someday.