They look at me
through their worn down features.
They've got lines
all over their faces
each a mark of frequented emotion.

Their suits are cut to perfection,
or else they haven't showered in months.
It doesn't make a difference,
this type of man...
are all the same in their bones.

They want my freshness,
the smooth touch of my skin,
the soft curls and curves
that haven't yet been worn rough by age.

They want the twist of my smile
my brightness, my beauty.
They see
untamed, unharnessed, naiveté  
sparkling in my eyes,
and they want it.

They want me to make them happy,
and through our word play
I can see it in their eyes.
The longing, the lust, the belittlement.

The twist of my  smile slowly drops down,
The sparkle in my eye sizzles out.
But my brightness?
It burns hot.

I am not naive, I know that you want me.
I am not yours for the taking.
My brightness burns hot,
and I will scorch you to your bones.

(Parents, raise your sons right)