You know that it is over when you go
to see him after midnight, dressed
In babydoll pajamas the breeze blows
up on your way inside. Think how impressed
he’ll be with such a cheeky surprise. Use
your key and climb in bed, the place he should
be but isn’t, his “early night,” a ruse.
You know what it must mean; it isn’t good.
You leave ashamed his neighbors will get a view
of you, this needy whore without a clue.
For him, you were a good girl, pure and true,
and look at where it’s fucking gotten you.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. Her sonnets and other poetry have been featured in Anti-Heroin Chic, Quail Bell Magazine, Infernal Ink, Occulum, Faded Out, Fourth & Sycamore, Murmur Journal, Moonchild Magazine and many other publications. Read some more of her sonnet fuckery at http://medium.com/@lolaandjolie. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie.
Wanton Fuckery Poetry 