Some women smile because they’re excited to see you.
Some women smile because they’re expected to.
I’ve been trained to see the difference.
Some women will say they love you, because the first date
didn’t go so well, and they want to scare you off.
Some women say they just want to have fun, then cry
on nights when they’re alone.
Some women just want to be left alone.
Some women go out to the bar for girls’ night,
but really are just there to pick up guys.
Some women pretend not to care about Valentine’s Day.
Some women are actually ready at 8.
Some women will buy me dinner, and I feel
grateful but still somehow less of a man.
Some women remind me of my mother.
This terrifies me.
Some women think I’m gay.
My ******* begs to differ.
Some women are just too fat.
Some women can pull it off.
Some women commit, only to ****
your best friend the next day.
Some women love *** more than me.
Some women want to be saved, others
want to do the saving.
Some women see my *****
as an act of hostility.
Some women wish they had my eyelashes.
Some women, I wish just had an instruction manual.
Some women will never be content.
Some women remind me sanity is not
gender specific.
Some women disprove this argument.
Some women complain about money, then
yell at you for working too much while
spending $800 on a Gucci handbag.
Some women understand a Sears purse
works just as well.
Some women have been deceived one too
many times by men.
Some women believe the right man will
behave like Matthew McConaughey,
or at least the McConaughey
they see on screen.
Some women prove that nice guys
don’t always finish last.
We’ve been raised to think otherwise.
Some women wait at home at night,
wondering if he will ever arrive, knock on
their door, and show them that not all men are bad.

To understand the stories we tell,
we must experience them.
Smell the burning timber
of a ruined house.
Hear the cries of a newly made widow,
so others may understand her sorrow.
Feel the warmth of the twisting flames,
swallowing every scrapbook and
pillowcase, tile shingle and teapot.
Observe as a lifetime’s collection
of material objects melt before
the eyes of their owners.
Watch as the light works for you,
bending and burning,
solidifying in still frames
the very details it destroys.
Feel the pain of their loss,
and allow the images you create
to properly illustrate that agony.
Some may see snapshots
of a burning house,
but others will understand
that these are not pictures,
but moments stolen from time.
Do this, and you will find,
that instead of documenting death,
your images preserve life.

She started this, locking eyes with mine
from across the bar, even if just for a moment.
She wants this. She wants me.
I can almost feel the rough surface
of the barricade she’s built,
forged from the mistakes
of past lovers. Fools may be deferred,
but I know it’s just an act for the game we play.

She didn’t invite me home with her.
I am not concerned. She’s just expanding
the chase. Like a fox fearing the ferocious
teeth of an enclosing hound, she’s excited
by the thought of being trapped.
I excite her.
Like a predator approaching their prize,
I wait nearby. Anxious. Aroused. Afraid.

She seems reluctant, but the screams solidify
what I already knew. This is her fantasy.
Her flesh is warm, contradicting the cool
night air. She shudders at my touch, tears
swelling in her eyes. She wants this.
My body pulses,
moving to the rhythm of her heart,
fast at first, then fading with the falling
stars, until the cries of the crickets
are all that remain.