Freud

Jenny Bailey

Hair pressed in those damn sweet curls, moving in close time with his breath on my cheek. “I love you,” and it’s just like the movies. I’ll go home and make kisses in my fake kitchen, stirring and shaking this broken air. “On the rocks, sweet girl,” And I obey, like a nice girl will. Hell, I was born to be a mother.

Hair pressed in those damn sweet curls, moving in close time with his breath on my cheek.