Out of water, she—
Rose, soaked dress, body blinding,
Eyes looking away.

A conscious choice we transform
into a subconscious impulse.

my heart is a concerto
in which Ithaca was but a concrete cage of steely walls
compressed on my heart, and the fluttering concerto grew too much,
and my heart is too much
with my ribcage but a tiger's cage
and wanton cruelty, and living's ecstasy,
and I am always first to arrive and always last to leave--

(et petite souer, saivez-vous?
la nuit, la nuit, je baise la nuit!)

We are hell in
Little black dresses and
**** me heels.
Dramatic made up faces
Enhancing lures to hook
You, the next victim of
A sultry assault.
We know what you want,
But our hearts are iced.
We are created to torture.