They’d whoop her ass right down the street—it was the way she’d like to meet. They deserved to do the dance their mind had told removed her pants. Both at fault but one to blame—the witch had played her angel’s games. A crack—a cry—a slithered spine; she let them in and it was fine. There had been a thunder-strike, had been in August, one bad night. It was then that this began—at least she thought—twas not her plan.
Then she’d gone to do her work—share her love and use her mirth. She’d done it with her aching heart—with her boobies and her art. That one had come to lose their grip—their God reborn—sent on a trip. She’d written books about it all—which told of someone’s broken fall—who’d need a hug to bring it back—to fix them both and mend the crack.
She wished she’d known who had been there—lies were told on smells of hair. They wished they’d known the source at all—no sense was mad within the fall. Some time to take would mend the pain—her hands were healers in that way. She’d not send love because it stung—a hug would make it all undone. This would show them who they were; some bitches who would cause a stir.