She lit candles like they meant something, whispered to her own face
Had her panties on backward and mascara in every place
Said the walls were talking but only when she was naked
And the tub was full of rose petals and razor blades she faked it
She rode strangers like therapy, moaned into the night air
Every orgasm a smoke bomb—every scream a dare
Said she loved herself too much to die but not enough to stop
And she carved poetry into bathroom tiles where the drips wouldn’t drop
Bhwer and breakdown, lipstick on the drain
Jerking off just to feel alive, biting down on shame
She’s got mental health on mute and sex like it’s revenge
Bleeds in every love note then licks it off the edge
Her hands shake when she zips her boots, like memory’s chasing her down
But she’ll grind on a bar stool and laugh like she owns the top
Daddy issues painted red, trauma with a twist
And a body count she keeps by scent, not by list
She don’t need saving—she needs space to burn
And maybe a pill that don’t make the world turn
Bhwer and breakdown, lipstick on the drain
Jerking off just to feel alive, biting down on shame
She’s got mental health on mute and sex like it’s revenge
Bleeds in every love note then licks it off the edge
415B. The Borden Girl
Sunday dress, blood on the hem, lace and axe with grace
She hummed while Daddy’s jawbone cracked, never lost her pace
No prints, no tears, just a deadpan smirk and forty whacks in bloom
The maid still scrubs that guest room like it’s a fucking tomb
Lizzie Borden took an oh—if no one loves, then no one stays
And her legacy’s carved in firewood, in the house where nothing plays
Victorian angel, hair in curls, and justice in her wrist
She kissed her mother’s grave with a grin and clenched the bloody fist
Lizzie Borden wore white gloves, but her hands still drip with guilt
A lady of precision rage in a house that fe rebuilt
She’s the lullaby of murder, the original crimson bride
And if you hear her counting steps—there’s nowhere left to hide
The floorboards squeak in rhymes, the walls can’t keep the screams
And anyone who sleeps there wakes in someone else’s dreams
The axe? Still missing. The motive? Thin. The girl? Still walks the hall
And when she whispers “Fher, please”—you’re answering the call
They say innocence is priceless, but Lizzie paid in blood
And silence became her anthem as her legacy became the flood
Lizzie Borden wore white gloves, but her hands still drip with guilt
A lady of precision rage in a house that fe rebuilt
She’s the lullaby of murder, the original crimson bride
And if you hear her counting steps—there’s nowhere left to hide
416 next: My List time again. Something twisted, personal,
or perverse. Let’s sharpen the blade. Say the word.
#267
Don’t Cry for the Ones Who Burned You
#268
Champagne and Chlamydia
#269
Spider Veins & Sugar Rage
#270
Trophy Rack
She parks that ass like a billboard warning—says “closed” but it don’t mean stop
Skirt cut higher than Vegas odds, tan lines shaped like handcuffs drop
Walks like she owns the sin tax, leans like she’s breaking parole
Red lips write dirty laws, and every man signs with his soul
Hotel keys fall from her smile, husbands vanish from her lap
Church girls cross themselves twice when she orders her drink with a slap
It’s the Red Light Rodeo—where the slut gods go to drink and burn
Where her heels tap lies into leher booths, and the preachers never learn
It’s lipstick heat, a motel beat, a fuck-me grin and a twisted turn
Come and ride it till your morals crash, Red Light Rodeo, no return
She don’t need luck, just clean sheets and a blind clerk’s grin
She undresses shame in four slow moves and rides you raw from skin to sin
Got perfume that smells like poor decisions and past-due rent
Every “baby” costs a memory, every “more” is punishment
She ttoos guilt in places tongues remember, never titles
Leaves your wallet lighter than your balls, but hell, no one complains
It’s the Red Light Rodeo—where the slut gods go to drink and burn
Where her heels tap lies into leher booths, and the preachers never learn
It’s lipstick heat, a motel beat, a fuck-me grin and a twisted turn
Come and ride it till your morals crash, Red Light Rodeo, no return
Mirrors swe her title in fog, bedsheets whisper sins she sold
She ain’t salvation, she’s the debt—collects in flesh and never folds
Red Light Rodeo, she’s the queen, she’s the flame, she’s the sin
And if you crawl back bruised and broke—she’ll let you beg to burn again