Scarlett’s Got a Gun

Fiona McKay Scarlett’s got a gun. Moves on alcohol-soft legs through a glass room, louring shadows, candlestick-high. Feels no pain, plant-pot rammed, skittering away broken-sharded. Scarlett’s got a gun, those bitches don’t even know it, heads together, bending peacock feathers, white skin blaring in the candlelight. Scarlett’s got a gun tight-strapped to her milk-thighs that […]