|It all comes down to triceps. Whose are bigger?
Will I get the gun…or will you?
If I cover her like a sleeping bag
If every part is hidden beneath my tent-body
Then he can’t get through
My skin is her bulletproof glass
I wonder who’s coming for daddy next
Oh it’s my fifth-grade science teacher
Looking under the kitchen table
Watching him leap through the air
Over floors of lurching lava
She’s not here for me.
Another lady gets me
The one perched on the lemon cream gate
At the Chiefs stadium
The one from Touched by an Angel
The one with the automatic
It’s better than having my hands slashed apart
In the recliner
Better than the lake-lady pulling me under again
While you stand just feet from the bank
Your frizzy hair blowing in the wind
As you push little children on swings
© Copyright 2008 Mamela (UN: hey-mamela at Writing.Com).
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