Run

Bad boy, mad boy, 

with knife-fight scars on his arms 

and a lazy gaze that knocks me to the wall 

and freezes the words upon my tongue. 

I want to run. 

But God that voice.

Like the rumbling of a restless earth

echoing my own discontent. 

He is six feet, four inches of walking danger, 

with too many tattoos, scuffed boots

and bricklayer hands. 

Pure bass that pulls me to the ground. 

Down, down, down,

to the hunger buried deep,

where orange and red seeps 

and pulses between us,

hazard lights flash 

a warning clear as day 

while an arrogant smile whispers “stay.”

I want to run…
but can't decide;

to him 

or away?