You can’t trust a pretty woman.
Those eyes, ethereal, glittering
in focus towards your direction.
You can’t trust a pretty woman.
Caught between the burning touch of
skin on skin and the soft taste of lust
in the nape of her neck. Her hand
is in your hair, perhaps finding its
way down your back. She’s smiling
through clutched lips, perhaps nibbling
on yours. You need her for a minute
there; all pride, all dignity, cast astray
for her fix. She understands this.
She capitalizes on your momentary
weakness, slipping the knife
slowly between two of you ribs.
You feel it miles away.
You feel it, pain careening
from far off, clenching
your teeth and muscles.
You can’t trust a pretty woman.
You pull away, look
into those eyes.
Nothing.
Nothing but that smile,
and the sweet taste of lust,
dead on your tongue.