She slinks into your life,
wearing see through shirts
and a patterned bra,
pushing herself into a place
you thought was stable
until two hours ago.
She takes your hand
and draws you close,
spinning you out
onto a dance floor
riddled with tiny cracks
that seem able to bear you,
but not the weight
of emotion sitting in your chest.
And you know when
you touch her
she is nothing good;
she is the beauty
you have always sought,
a vision that will
burn the backs of your eyes
but never quite make it
to the safe haven
of your memory,
like a dream you almost remember
until morning wakes you.
She fills that piece of you
that cries out for chaos;
she is destruction
with a smile and velvet gloves.
She will lace your bed
with roses,
then impale you on the thorns
and color her lips with your blood
while you beg her to do it again.
There has never been a moment
when you did not secretly crave her,
and you wonder if loathing
is simply desire intensified by fear.
You will offer her your heart
on a silver plate,
and she will place it reverently
in the pocket of her coat,
but will forget to take it out
before the coat goes to the cleaners.
She never makes promises,
never pretends to be angelic,
so be careful;
halos have been known
to burn if held too long,
and the shape of her head
is all wrong anyway.
You know your pain
is your own damn fault;
she only took what you offered --
exchange was never
a part of the bargain.
You know she will
rip you apart
with nothing more
than a kiss,
but you close your eyes
and pucker up anyway,
because every now and then
we all need to fall.
And when she
saunters away,
whatever pieces are left
are the ones you know
will survive her
lack of equilibrium,
and the ones that will
forever yearn to be
burned again.