What I am

I'm the kind of girl that wears my skirts way too high
and my necklines way too low
I wear pink and paisley like I'm off to church
(or getting off at church?)
I wear red lipstick on my lips, my teeth, and sometimes on your cock
I wear high heels for the sound
and boots just to shake, rattle, and roll

I'm the kind of girl who can use a hammer
but gets hot and bothered watching you do it for me
I can play demure or stoic or coy
(read: emphasis on 'play')
I can ride in a car backwards, on curvy roads, with my head in a book
I can do this while not getting motion sickness
and this is kinda the story of my life

I'm the kind of girl that gets caught with my eyes closed
often with my pants down and the flash still burning
I get caught up, tangled in my calendar
(desperately trying to schedule some spontaneity)
I get torn up by the little things, worn out by the big
I get goose flesh fingering textured fabric
and ache for clean cool sheets and soft arms

I'm the kind of girl you can take home to mom
as long as she won't be angry with your choice of girl
You can bring me flowers and other pretty things
(Ill only bemoan my disempowerment a little)
You can fuel my obsessions with what was, what is, what can be
You can give me space to be publicly inappropriate
and room to be someone different tomorrow