Henna Sjöblom/Murder Tramp Birthday

HJD writes

Relaterad bild Artist – Ellen Rogers

When she walked into my life, cocked shotgun in her hands and grinning slits on her hips, my first instinct was to play dead. I didn’t want to know her story. I put my head on the grass and peered at her trough half-shut eyelids. She wore lipstick the shade of sun-bleached guts and smelled like that time I almost confessed my love to my best friend. I couldn’t stop thinking – were my hands clean enough? I had swabbed every page clear, leaving no trace of weakness, yet myself I reeked of imprisonment. She bent my head back and breathed into my nostrils, and I felt it – the wash of summer, chasing away the stench of gin and ejaculate, buns left in the oven too long and hospital waiting rooms. In that moment I dreamt of kissing her on her stomach curve, of dipping…

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