The Wounds She Leaves Behind
It’s Friday night. In preparation, Camille stuffs
swollen 36Cs into a push-up black bra
exposing promises, white breasts suggesting
last supper to a mark ready for resurrection or death.
The silver see-through tunic is cinched
tightly with a wide, silver-studded belt.
Goddess leggings emphasize her ass.
Camille is hungry, looking for meat,
another night of collecting scalps.
She stalks the rich men’s lounge.
Targets at the piano bar take notice,
calculate their chances while
mentally counting the hundreds in their pockets.
Do it now: purchase an opportunity to escape for
an hour or two between rented thighs.
It’s Friday night. In preparation, Camille stuffs
swollen 36Cs into a push-up black bra
exposing promises, white breasts suggesting
last supper to a mark ready for resurrection or death.
The silver see-through tunic is cinched
tightly with a wide, silver-studded belt.
Goddess leggings emphasize her ass.
Camille is hungry, looking for meat,
another night of collecting scalps.
She stalks the rich men’s lounge.
Targets at the piano bar take notice,
calculate their chances while
mentally counting the hundreds in their pockets.
Do it now: purchase an opportunity to escape for
an hour or two between rented thighs.
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