It’s no secret boys like pretty things,
sometimes in tight jeans.
They dip your ponytails in an inkwell
and make you swear not to tell.
It’s no secret boys like pretty things,
sometimes they’ll go out and buy edible rings.
Fantasize about the day they will take care of you
just like good boys should do.
It’s no secret boys like pretty things,
sometimes they’ll pick their favorite drunk song and sing,
and expect you to sing along,
even though you sense something’s wrong.
It’s no secret boys like pretty things,
sometimes they snap your wrists to listen to you scream.
Broken bones, blacken eyes and busted lips;
he says he loves you as he grabs your hips.
It’s no secret boys like pretty things,
especially when it’s moldable with clipped wings.
It’s no secret…
©privatethoughtsmadepublic. 2016.
Quiet Corner 