When Andrew walked onto the train platform on Friday afternoon, he stopped in his tracks when he saw Molly. She was wearing a black mini skirt with an old Fleetwood Mac t-shirt tucked at her narrow waist. His gaze traveled south and he smiled when he saw the olive colored fringed booties. As he approached, he wondered if he was too under dressed in his black t-shirt and trousers, red flannel over shirt and hiking boots.

"Hey," he smiled, giving her a kiss. "You look good."

She smiled at him. "You do, too."

He looked around the platform. Their side was nearly empty, but the opposite was bustling with commuters returning from work in the city. The train hissed as it waited for passengers to disembark or get on. Their own train into the city would arrive in a few minutes.

"What are we doing again?" he asked, sitting on a bench next to her.

"Its a surprise," she answered.

"I know it has to do with poetry, right?"

She nodded. "It does. But that's all I'm telling you."

He sighed in annoyance. He hated not knowing. Even though he'd asked her a half dozen times since she set the date, the answer had been the same. But, the upside was that they were talking almost constantly now. In the wake of their carnal afternoon, a day hadn't passed where they hadn't spoken to each other. He gave up trying to avoid sounding desperate - there was no point to it now. He was 90% certain Molly knew he was utterly and completely entranced by her. There was no need for pretending anymore. At least, that was what he thought.

She still seemed kind of ambivalent toward him. Though, she still continued their conversations ardently and gave no indication of feeling negatively at all. Solving her was a Herculean effort, but he was glad for the work. Absently, she moved to stand next to him and her hand found his, their fingers intertwining.

The train pulled into the station a minute later and he stood, allowing Molly to pull him toward the edge of the platform. The doors opened and an elderly woman got off, shuffling along with a walker. Andrew shifted out of her way with a polite smile. When she was gone, he followed Molly into the train car. It smelled stale, like cigarettes and beer and the sweat of a thousand bodies.

Two teen boys sat at the back of the car, watching videos on their mobiles. A couple in their mid-forties was having an animated argument in Italian at the other end. He sat next to Molly on one side of the aisle while a young woman sat by herself opposite them, her bag hugged to her chest as if she was trying to take up as little room as possible. Just before the doors closed, a man came in and sat a few rows behind her, not taking his eyes away from the back of her head.

The train took off, heading toward Dublin. They stopped several times and each time, more people got on. Molly focused on the suburbs passing by outside the window, each one growing larger as they got closer to the city. It took three stops before he realized the man that had been staring at the young woman had shifted up two rows closer to her.

When they stopped at Dun Laoghaire, the man again moved toward the girl, this time sitting directly behind her. Andrew watched as he tapped the girl on the shoulder, making her jump, and proceeded to try to pick her up. Andrew'd had enough. He stood, crossed the aisle, and sat next to the girl. She was so startled that she nearly jumped out of her skin, no doubt thinking he was somehow associated with the other man.

"I thought that was you," he said, holding his hand out. "Andrew. Remember? We met at that mixer at Johnny's Pub back in March."

He prayed the girl had enough sense to catch on, otherwise it was going to be a big problem. After looking at him and then back at the man behind her apprehensively, she took his hand.

"Right, I remember you," she said in a thick Northern Irish accent. "Clare," she answered, shaking his hand.

He could see the gratitude in her eyes.

"Mate, we were having a conversation," the man interjected.

"So?" Molly said, surprising Andrew. He wasn't even aware she was watching the exchange. "Clare, good to see you again," she added, shaking the girl's hand.

He could see the man was getting irritated. "Come on. You don't really know this girl. We've been on the train for fifteen minutes and you didn't do a fucking thing. So why don't you leave us alone so we can talk, yeah?"

"Do you want to talk to him, Clare?" Andrew heard himself ask. She shook her head. "There. Why don't you come sit over here with us and we can catch up," he suggested, standing.

Clare made a hasty switch across the aisle, choosing a pair of seats a few rows up. The man glared daggers at Andrew, but he didn't care. After making sure Molly was seated on Clare's opposite side, he planted his ass in the seat directly behind them, putting himself between the two women and the creep. He stared the man down for the next four stops until he finally got off at Sydney Parade, muttering curses and obscenities at him as he passed by. He relaxed slightly and turned his attention to Clare and Molly. They were mid-conversation and the girl seemed to be relaxing more by the minute.

By the time they reached Connolly Station in Dublin, Clare had told them of her gap year around the island, how she was going to a hostel in the city for a few days before returning back to Derry.

"Are you okay to get to the hostel on your own?" Molly asked Clare.

"I should be fine," she smiled. "Thanks so much for helping me out."

"Of course," Andrew replied with an easy smile. "I just wish more people would do the same."

She left them, heading to the other side of the train platform to take a different exit. Before he turned around, Molly's hands were on his chest and her mouth was on his, kissing him hungrily as she pushed him back against the brick wall. The air whooshed out of his lungs when his back hit and his hands came up to her hips. Her tongue rolled against his lips and her finger nails dug into his skin. He felt her effects for several seconds after she pulled away, wiping her mouth.

"What was that for?" he stammered.

"Back there. On the train. It was ridiculously sexy of you to step in like that," she explained.

He smiled goofily. "Why thank you. I do my best."

The platform around them was buzzing with the last of the day's commuters leaving the city and the first of the night's revelers. Andrew slid his glasses up his nose and kept a firm hold on Molly's hand as she wormed her way through the maze of people. When they exited the station, Dublin greeted him like an old friend, loud and chaotic with the smell of car exhaust.

Molly stopped outside the station, looking up and down the street to get her bearings. He opened his mouth the speak, but she tugged him across the busy street when the signal changed. After she walked purposefully in the same direction for a minute, he finally decided to ask where they were going.

"You'll see," was all she replied.

He pulled her to a stop. "No," he smiled. "Tell me."

"You said you like poetry," she said. "So I'm taking you to a spoken word poetry event."

He was genuinely pleased and surprised. "I didn't think you would be into something like that."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," she smirked coyly over her shoulder as she continued walking.

For what felt like the hundredth time since he met Molly, he found himself jogging after her. It seemed to be a recurring theme in their relationship, his constant running to keep up.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She didn't wait for a confirmation from him. "Do you ever get tired of performing that same song over and over? Take Me to Church, I mean."

"Ehm, yes and no," he said, tousling his hair as he thought. "On one hand, the song is like, four years old. I perform it at every single concert, on dozens of television programs, and I've talked about it non-stop ever since it came out. I've broken it down into manageable pieces time and time again. So yeah, there are times when I wish people would ask me about any of the other things I've written." He pulled her to his body when a cyclist whizzed past. "But on the other hand, there are no words for the feeling you get when an entire 2500-seat theater is singing a song you wrote and recorded sitting in your parents' attic as a twenty-three-year-old university drop-out. When you take your in-ears out and it sounds like a choir of thousands of people singing your song, its the best feeling in the world."

He remembered the first time he performed to a crowd larger than the small pubs in Dublin - 200+ people were transfixed by him. Why? He had no idea. And a night that started with him downing four whiskeys and emptying the contents of his stomach (from both ends) twice from nerves ended with a standing ovation and women trying to give him their numbers.

For a while, she was speechless next to him, which he found odd. In the entirety of the time he'd known her, he had never seen her be so quiet for so long. The only sound between them was her heels, clicking on the sidewalk. Part of him desperately wanted to continue the make out session she'd started on the train platform, but another part of him was curious about their destination for the evening. The sun hung heavy on the horizon, casting long shadows as it inched downward.

"Here we are," she said, slowing outside a dingy four story building with a rusting black wrought iron fence running along the sidewalk in front of it.

"Where exactly is this?" he asked, looking up at the windows. Several had been boarded up; the panes that weren't broken were covered in faded newspapers.

"Potbelly," she answered. "Come on," she sighed, pulling him after her in exasperation.

He followed her down a set of concrete stairs into the ground floor of the building. The door opened and he was plunged into another world. It was almost like the speakeasies of the American Prohibition come to life straight from the Jazz Age. A spotlight shone on a small empty stage at the far end of the room. A bar occupied the nearest wall, tended by a tattooed man and woman. A few people were already standing at the bar, chatting and nursing drinks.

Down four steps, he found himself in a sunken seating area filled with tables and chairs and booths along a wall. A few tables were already occupied, but most of the dimly-lit room appeared empty. He tried to take up as little space as possible, but Molly looked like she owned the place.

And apparently, she'd been there frequently.

"Mols! I was wondering if you'd come back to see us!" a brunette man said excitedly as he embraced her. Molly hugged him back. "Please tell me you're performing tonight."

Andrew blinked. Performing? Performing what?

"Is the list long?" she asked.

The brunette shook his head. "Don't think so. Ask Maeve," he replied. Then his gaze caught Andrew. "Who is this?" he asked, looking him up and down.

Andrew shuffled his feet and stared at the probably-filthy floor.

"Oh, this is my friend Andrew. From Bray," Molly introduced him. "Andrew, this is Chester."

Chester held out his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"I'm gonna try to find Maeve," Molly said before disappearing.

Andrew was left alone with Chester, desperately craving a drink. "Is the bar any good?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

Chester held up his half-empty beer mug. "Works well enough for me."

Andrew smiled and excused himself to order a pint. When he returned to Chester's table, a petite blonde woman stood next to him. Molly was nowhere to be found.

"So Andrew," Chester started. "How did you meet our fair Yank?"

Andrew smiled at his pet name for Molly. "Ehm -." Before he could respond, Molly spoke for him.

"He stalked me and stole my coffee," she said plainly.

"Oh?" Chester said, raising an eyebrow playfully. He studied Andrew intensely for several seconds. "I feel like I've seen you somewhere."

Andrew bit his lips together and looked down. He was always wary of revealing too much to strangers. Even though the bar didn't seem like it was teeming with fans, fame had taught him to expect them anywhere he went. And that's not to say he thought he was famous enough for that; rather, he was used to fans coming up to him in places he thought he'd be anonymous. Sitting in a partially-empty dimly-lit bar was no exception.

"What do you do for work?" the blonde asked, tilting her head inquisitively.

"Ehm, I'm a musician," he said.

Chester slapped the table. "That's where I know you from!" He clapped his hands together. "You wrote that song... the, ehm, the one about the, oh fuck which one was it?!" He struggled to gather his thoughts.

Andrew looked at Molly's smirk and knew she was going to be no help to her friend. The poor bastard looked like he was firing on all cylinders as he tried to place him. A smile spread across his face as he watched the man struggle.

"GOT IT!" Chester said suddenly. "Hozier! That's who you are!" he exclaimed.

Instinctively, Andrew ducked and lowered his gaze. Several people around them looked up, pausing their conversations. He winced in the moment's silence that followed. And then they went right back to their conversations, as if nothing had happened.

"Dude! Keep it down!" Molly hissed at him.

Chastised, Chester gave Andrew an apologetic look. "Sorry mate," he mumbled.

"Let's try to not blow his cover, yeah?" Molly said sternly.

"How the fuck did you two even meet, though?" Chester asked in disbelief. "Like what are the odds, man?"

"Probably about the same as meeting anyone else," Molly answered. "He's just a normal guy who makes music. Its no different than any other job."

"I guess," Chester said. "But mate, the women. Oh my God, the women. You lucky sonofabitch."

Andrew smiled and shrugged. "I suppose."

In truth, most of his previous tour was spent surrounded by fifteen or more other people 90% of the time. If he wasn't performing, he was doing press or photo shoots. If he wasn't doing that, he was probably doing a soundcheck or sleeping. There was very little time to enjoy women. In fact, he'd rather have spent those rare nights where he had the time to himself sleeping than hooking up with someone. Of course, there had been one or two, but he preferred his solitude to a warm body.

Chester nudged Molly. "Did you find Maeve?" he asked. "Are you going on tonight?"

She nodded. "After Jamie," she said, winking at the blonde.

"Wait - going on?" Andrew heard himself ask. The music in the room had gradually gotten louder as more people began to stream through the door. "Are you performing or something?"

"You've never seen her do her thing, have you?" the other man asked, a large smile brimming on his lips.

"Do what?"

"The fair Yank is a budding poet," he explained, putting an arm around Molly's shoulders, shaking her gently.

"You write poetry?" Andrew asked her in surprise. "You never told me that."

"You never asked," she answered coyly, sticking her tongue out at him.

He wanted to ask more, but didn't get the chance. A spotlight illuminated a young man onstage and the lights went dark. The room erupted into applause. The man held up his hands in greeting and waited for the room to quiet.

"Good evening! Thank you all for coming out tonight!" he said with a smile. "My name is Connor and I'm the operator of Potbelly." A cheer rose from one corner of the room. "As is customary on Fridays, we will be hosting an open mic and everyone is welcome to contribute. This is a safe space and we just want to radiate love out to every single one of you." Applause rose and fell. "The list is ongoing, and we'll be taking performers until closing time at about half-past-midnight. If you're feeling particularly generous and would like to grace us with your gifts, please find my wife, Maeve. She'll be the lovely ginger walking around with the clipboard. Just pop your name on the list and we'll try to get to you." He picked up the microphone stand and moved it slightly to the side of the stage. "Please do keep in mind that the list will fill up rapidly and in the interest of fairness, we limit everyone to 10 minutes or less. Do try to stick to that. If you're running over, I promise not to be too rough with the shepherd's crook," he joked and everyone laughed. "First up, we've got a local favorite. Please give Bridget Hall a nice warm welcome!"

The room filled with applause as a small redhead walked up to the stage. Andrew listened as she read a humorous poem from her phone, relaxing a bit when he was sure the audience was focused on the performers instead. He nursed his beer, enjoying the camaraderie that filled the room. They were three performers deep when Chester looked at him.

"Andrew you should perform!" he urged. "This place would go bonkers!"

Molly looked at him like he was an idiot. "Chester, why the fuck would he do that? He's trying to keep a low profile, not draw the whole damn country to him."

Chester ignored her. "How awesome would it be, though? Come on. You should do it!"

Andrew sighed. "I didn't bring a guitar," he said, splaying his fingers on the table. "Besides, if Molly's doing something, I don't want to take away from that."

"You wouldn't take away if you went at the end," Jamie offered.

Still he shook his head. "I'm done performing for a while," he chuckled. "I'd rather be in the audience for a bit."

Chester shrugged. "Suit yourself." He disappeared to the bar for another drink.

Andrew turned to Molly. "Are you reading someone else's work?" he asked.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "You'll see."

Again with that. He was losing patience as his curiosity got the better of him. His thought process stopped when Molly's hand found his knee under the table. She traced lazy circles on his trousers as they watched a young man perform an ode to his girlfriend. When he was done, Jamie stood.

"I'm next," she said, downing her glass and wagging her eyebrows before walking away.

"Nervous?" Andrew asked Molly.

She shrugged. "Not really. I've been here loads of times. It doesn't really faze me anymore."

He shuddered. "I've been performing to crowds fifty times the size of this one for years and I still get nervous."

"Why?" she asked. "You're a good musician. Your songs are gorgeous. Why sell yourself short? You've got so much more talent than you give yourself credit for."

"It's my Irish roots. Its been beaten into us from birth that we're all sub par wretches with very little to offer to society," he deadpanned.

For a split second, he thought she actually believed him. And then, her eyes started to twinkle and her lips moved into a half-moon smile. "Look at you and your dark sense of humor."

He smirked back. "Its a gift."

She leaned over and whispered in his ear. "And a sexy one at that."

He felt goosebumps rise on his skin as her lips brushed his ear. He snaked his arm around her back, letting his fingers draw circles and curlicues of their own through her t-shirt. Jamie was onstage, but he basically tuned the petite blonde out. He was inundated with the scent of honey and the heat from Molly's body next to him was intoxicating. By the time Jamie was done he felt drunk, even though he'd only had one beer.

Jamie left the stage to loud applause and she made her way back to the table with a grin on her face. "Well done," Chester said, hugging her. Andrew smiled at her.

"Up next is our very own Yank, please give it up for a crowd favorite. All the way from Berkeley, California, please welcome Molly Stanley!" Connor said from the stage.

Molly hopped off her stool and wove her way through the crowd. He watched her step into the spotlight to cheers and whistles.

"Hello everyone," she said with a sweet smile. She picked up the microphone stand and moved it closer to the center of the stage. "How are you doing tonight?" she asked, looking into the dim theater. Chester gave her a loud wolf whistle. "Chester, don't make me come back there," she warned.

"Please do, baby!" he shouted back, garnering howls of laughter. "Punish me!" Andrew laughed into his beer.

"Alright, so is everyone familiar with the term 'resting bitch face'?" Molly asked, sliding the microphone into the stand. The women in the room laughed. "Okay, so its basically a term created by someone that was unhappy that women weren't smiling all the time. So, like, you could be taking a nap and a guy'd be like, 'You have a bitch face!' and its like 'I mean, I'm literally just sleeping so...I don't, I'm not sure I can help that.'"

Everyone laughed. Andrew could tell that Molly had been on stage before. She moved with grace and confidence, surveying the audience in front of her to ensure all eyes were on her. He bristled slightly when he saw two men at a nearby table lean in to whisper to each other with wolfish grins as they watched her.

"This is An Ode to My Bitch Face***," she said before taking a deep breath.

"You pink armor lipstick rebel steel cheek slit mouth head to the ground mean girl.
You headphones in but no music.
You house key turned blade,
You quick step between street lights, strainer of pricks and chest beaters,
Laughter is a foreign language to your dry ice tongue."

He watched in amazement as she transformed in front of him. Her confidence radiated to every corner of the room, mingling with frustration and anger as she spoke.

"Resting bitch face, they call you, but there is nothing restful about you, no.
Lips like a flat-lined heartbeat,
panic at the sight of you,
scream for their mothers, throat full of bees, head spun 360 exorcist bitch."

The audience stared, unabashedly, soaking in her every word. Her hands moved in a delicate dance as she spoke, hypnotizing him.

"Just trying to buy a soda.
Just trying to do your laundry.
Just trying to dance at the party and then someone asks you to smile and the blood begins to riot.
Smile and you chisel away at your own jaw.
Smile and you unleash the swarm into the mouth of a man who wants to swallow you whole."

He'd heard and read his fair share of poetry. Hell, he'd even seen spoken word poetry performed a time or two. But the genuine shock he felt at hearing something so powerful drip from the lips of someone so unexpected was not a thing he had ever experienced.

"One theory is that you are born like this but I don't believe it.
You came out screaming and alive and look at you now.
Look at how you've learned to hide your teeth.
What's wrong with your face, bitch?
Your face, bitch, what's wrong with it?
Bitch face, I don't blame you for taking the iron pipe from their hands and branding yourself with it.
For making a flag out of your body bag."

Her hands moved out in front her as if laying a body bag flat. He could see the image she was painting and the rest of the world faded in his peripheral.

"Another theory is that you put it on every morning.
Screw it tight like a jar of jelly but I don't believe that either.
You woke up like this and have been for years.
How can you sleep pretty when there are four locks on the door and the fire escape feels like break-in bait.
They will tell you home is safe zone.
No, bitch face is safe zone.
Bitch face is home.
Bitch face is cutting off the ladder, willing to burn in the apartment if it means he can't get in."***

The room erupted into applause as she walked off the stage without bowing, heading right back to their table. He stood and embraced her tightly, still reeling from her powerhouse delivery.

"Holy fucking shit," he murmured into her ear, smiling when she pulled away.

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Surprised?"

He nodded aggressively. "Completely! Why the hell didn't you say you did this type of stuff?" he asked in disbelief.

Molly shrugged. "I thought it would be better if you saw it first-hand."

He looked at her in total amazement, shaking his head in disbelief that she had actually done it. "I'm getting another beer. You want one?" he asked, leaning in closer. She nodded, smiling at him over her shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd.

Four hours later, when the pub closed for the night, Andrew found himself walking alongside Chester, Jamie, and Molly. Chester was singing the Irish national anthem drunkenly, swaying back and forth. They came to an intersection and were waiting to cross the street when Chester swayed dangerously close to the edge of the sidewalk just as a bus zoomed past.

"Ok, c'mere, mate," Andrew said, grabbing a hold of the drunk man's shoulders. "Can't have you getting run over in the street." He looked at Jamie. "Does he live near here?"

She nodded. "A block away."

He flicked his hair out of his face. "I'll help get him back."

She gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you"

So the three of them guided Chester along the road the short distance to his flat. It was slow going because he got distracted a few times, but eventually they came to an older building with a bright red awning over the entrance. By that time, Chester had passed out. They stumbled up the steps together and Jamie opened his door.

"Where do you want him?" Andrew asked, his voice strained from holding Chester up. 

"Just there on the sofa is fine," Jamie said, moving empty mugs and attempting to straighten the room up slightly. She made a trip to the kitchen, her arms full. 

"Give us a hand, will you, Mol?" Andrew asked, nodding to Chester's feet. Molly picked up her friend's feet and helped Andrew plop him down onto the sofa. "Roll him to his side," he grunted, trying to nudge Chester's limp body to its side. "Don't want him to choke."

When the job was done, Andrew stood and wiped his hands off. A quick glance around the flat's lounge room told him that Chester was into comic books and science, but that was all he could discern before Jamie came back. 

"Thank you so much for bringing him back," she said. 

"Its no big deal at all," he answered. "Are you sure you'll be okay staying here?" he asked, glancing at Chester behind her. 

She nodded. "Yeah. He'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on him."

He opened his arms and gave her a hug. "You were brilliant tonight," he smiled. 

"Thanks. I'm glad you came. It was nice to meet you," she answered as they made their way to the door. She hugged Molly tightly. "Come back again soon. I feel like we hardly see you anymore since you finished the term."

"I'll try. We'll set something up soon, I promise," Molly said. 

Jamie opened the door. "Text me when you get home, okay?" she said. "Be safe."

Andrew gave her one last smile before she closed the door. "Ready to head home?" he asked. 

"You have no idea," Molly yawned. 

When they got down to the street, a strong wind whipped up, causing her to shiver. 

"Here," he said, taking off his flannel over shirt and handing it to her. 

She put it on gratefully. "Thank you."

They walked in silence for several minutes, holding hands. "So, 'Ode to My Bitch Face'," he said with a smile. "Is that a new composition, or...?"

Molly laughed, throwing her head back. "Its been around for a while. What did you think?"

"I loved it, actually," he replied, running his fingers through his hair. "I loved the imagery. It was really powerful stuff."

"What did it make you feel?"

He bit his lip. "Angry. Obviously, you were directly attacking society's standards for women and making a connection between men's expectations and women's autonomy over their own appearances. But I especially loved the connection you drew between the fear of men taking advantage of you and forcing a smile to keep them happy." He pulled her closer to him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I really liked it."

"Did I impress you?" she asked with a smirk. 

"Considerably so," he answered, pulling her to a stop and kissing her deeply. A car drove past, honking at them wildly. He pulled away. "Let's head home. I'm pretty sure the last train back to Bray leaves in about half an hour."

They set off at a good clip, her heels clicking on the sidewalk once again. When they reached the station, he stood behind Molly, wrapping his arms around her to keep her warm. He was happy to get on the train, even if it smelled of stale urine. Though it was summer, the Irish nights still hadn't caught up to the warm daytime temperatures. With fewer stops, the train made great time back to Bray. The moon was high in the sky as he and Molly left the station.

She moved to walk in the direction of her guest cottage but her stopped her. 

"Come back to mine," he said, kissing her softly. "Seriously, its a fucking long walk and I'm not letting you do that at this time of night alone. Certainly not in those shoes," he added, looking down at the impractical footwear. Though secretly, he'd had several images of her wearing nothing but those shoes run through his mind that night. "Come on."

"You just want to sleep with me," she said, joking. 

"Yes, I do," he admitted with a goofy face. "But I want you to be safe even more than that. Come on," he repeated. "You can stay in the spare room if you really want."

So they walked along the street until they reached the other side of the town. His cottage was on the outskirts of town, but still closer than hers. The row of houses next to his were dark and the whole street was quiet. He opened the door and let her in ahead of him, turning lights on. She discarded articles of clothing as she moved through the house. 

Her boots were kicked off just inside the door.

His over shirt was draped over the back of the sofa. 

Her socks were left on the bottom step of the spiral staircase. 

"Up here?" she asked, yawning. He nodded and she started the climb, leaving her skirt at the top of the steps. 

He locked the front door and kicked his own shoes off as he watched her shed her t-shirt from the ground floor. He followed her up the steps and came up behind her as she was sliding her bra off. It was tossed to the side as he ran his fingers across her skin. He led her to his bed, grateful for the company. And when they were finished with their carnal act, they both fell asleep, oblivious to the lights glowing brightly all around them.

***Ode to My Bitch Face is a FANTASTIC poem written by the AMAZING Olivia Gatwood. PLEASE go check out her material and support her. She is unbelievably talented and her book is beyond words. No ill will is intended in the use of this poem within this creative work.***