Hell Beneath Her Tongue
Gold caught in her hair like a bad idea,
green in her eyes like a warning light.
She says something filthy over coffee with the face of a saint
done right.
She laughs before the punchline lands,
leans back like she already knows.
Every decent thought I came in carrying leaves the room before she
goes.
She’s got heaven in the coloring,
something wicked in the wit.
A mouth made sweet for blasphemy,
and God, she knows exactly where to hit.
Blonde like daylight,
green like sin,
she smiles once
and trouble gets in.
She doesn’t need to raise her voice.
She doesn’t need to play a part.
She’ll make a joke,
tilt her head, and leave fingerprints on the heart.
I tried once to sound impressive.
She laughed and called me full of shit.
I swear I fell a little harder just because she ruined it.
She’s got heaven in the coloring,
something wicked in the wit.
A mouth made sweet for blasphemy,
and God, she knows exactly where to hit.
Blonde like daylight,
green like sin,
she smiles once
and trouble gets in.
She never needs to hunt.
Men walk willingly into the woods.
She never asks for worship.
That would only spoil the mood.
Give me gold between my fingers.
Give me green across the room.
Give me every filthy little joke that makes good manners meet their
doom.
Let saints keep quiet.
Let angels behave.
I want the girl who laughs too loud and makes irreverence
look
brave.
Blonde like daylight,
green like sin,
she looks at me—
and there I go again.
No halo.
No warning.
No mercy required.
Just green eyes,
gold hair,
and one more man
setting himself on fire.