It was a book
Therefore I read it.
But her scars interrupted
And I felt so confused.
I was curious and disgusted.
The curiosity came from the electricity
Flowing through her brown irises.
But the wet-dog sight she carried
And the night black scent she showed
Cautioned me to her oddity.
But the scars and the pale complexity
They held me to my seat.
And the world seemed to slow
As I lost her words in my thoughts
But her eyes flared up–
Two lightening torches ready to devour.
Her annoyance: my lack of attention.
But her words, like the blood red, glossy cherry
On top of the eccentric sundae that was this girl,
Were too uncanny to comprehend:
“What year is it?”