Homme Fatal
Stereotyped by others,
she was adored by me;
until I had to beat her up
and desecrate her fantasy.
With full red lips,
but nervous eyes,
she seemed to me
a febrile paradise,
offering the miraculous possibility
that I might heal
the gaping wound she seemed
so happy to reveal.
Yet every time I reached out to her,
she was never really there:
her openness was just a hook
to draw me in and generate despair.
Stereotyped myself, I drank, and drank
to bury the way I yearned for her;
for it reminded me
of a distant, long ago affair.
Not again, I thought,
as I recalled her pouting lips,
her flaunted midriff,
and her swaying hips.
I should have guessed,
that underneath all this
was her lubricious emptiness,
just aching for its nemesis.
Leave a Reply