Layla Pencoed Whore ❤️

About Glasgow

Once caught her hummin’ some hymn—whore with a soul? Nah, just playin’ the game. “Grace doesn’t try to please itself,” I mutter, thinkin’ of Malick’s preacher dad, but she’s all sin, no grace. Still, can’t look away—somethin’ hypnotic, like watchin’ a car crash. She’d probly laugh if I told her, sayin’, “Hanni, you’re too much!” Ha! Me? Too much? She’s the one sellin’ pussy and heartbreak like it’s art.

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But then, I hear a knock. It’s Mrs. Jenkins from down the street. She’s like, “I need a new stove, love!” I’m like, “Sure, but I’m kinda in the dark here.” She just laughs and says, “Well, I brought you some biscuits!” Bless her heart. I mean, who doesn’t love a good biscuit?

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