Scarlet's Lips

Her name was Scarlet and her lips are scarlet.
Youth in her thighs belies the age of her face. Couldn't be a spit from sixteen, but casually strokes the microphone and talks about body fluids. Of orgasms, of cum and blood. Mouth of a sailor, body of a woman, insecurities of a child.
Female adolescent perfection.
Want to put my coat on her shoulders. No puritanical need, but to shade the discomfort she finds in her own skin. Her body a stranger's clothes. Her mouth not so far away from mine.
Nothing  can quite unravel adulthood like a raging girl on the cusp. More self-aware than not, she is laughing at her own parody. Laughing at the idea of being on "the cusp" of anything. A reddened puppet hanging from lopsided strings.
Her lips swallow the stage, swallow me, swallow our collective silence.
I want to tell her that it will be okay, but I can't when surrounded by teeth and gums.
Words get stuck in between- No it won't. And- Absolutely it will! crunching on the back molars.
I do not want to lie to this child when I am inside her.
Already her body is a weapon and a playground. Already sex has become a visceral accommodation.
Her puberty was offered wildly to us, her audience. A sacrifice more keen than even she understands.
Scarlet with the scarlet lips, taking us in by the mouthfuls. Filling herself on our awkward silence.
We may not survive this bloodied mastication.
I want to tell her it will be okay, but I can't when I am drowning beneath the weight of her tongue.

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