Smirnov Bratva

She was a ghost, in heels.

She was there, then she wasn’t. 

She would play with my emotions like a well-played guitar. 

Then she would disappear. Making me want to strangle her. 

Maybe she wasn’t a ghost, maybe she was the giver of sin. Because we sinned every time we touched, every time she was near. 

Her lips were shaped like a heart, deceiving you at every word. 

Her body was created straight from my fantasies, one I craved to bend to my will. 

Her heart, well, who the hell knew. She kept that shit locked tight. 

And I couldn’t find the key.