#femmefatale
~ 💋 ~
She speaks in silk,
moves like sin,
Draws grown men like moths within.
A kiss,
a sigh,
a flash of thigh
And just like that, they’re begging why.
She toys with hearts,
delights in screams,
Turns pride to dust,
and love to dreams.
No blood,
no blade,
just one slow lean…
And down it falls,
- the Velvet Guillotine -
~ 💋 ~
May 15, 2025
May 15, 2025 at 8:43 AM UTC
She only smokes when she’s spiraling or performing.
Usually both.
Says she loves a dramatic flourish—
exhales like a closing line,
laughs like a scratched record.
You’ll meet her at a party that’s already ending.
She'll kiss you like she’s trying to delete her own mouth,
like you’re just the eraser.
She'll leave before sunrise
because she hates how the light arrives slowly,
and can’t stand watching the world wake up
and not call her back.
If you ask what she’s looking for,
she’ll point at the exit sign and say,
“Something with the same glow.”
You’ll think she’s flirting,
but she’s actually just listening hard
for the next excuse to leave.
If you ask for her number,
she’ll give you a poem,
one with no punctuation
and a key taped to the back.
Not to her place.
To your undoing.
She tells stories like she’s double-daring
the past to contradict her.
Someone once told her
she seems like the kind of girl
who disappears mid-sentence.
She said,
“Only when the sentence forgets I started it.”
She collects promises like matchbooks:
already scorched,
still reeking of places
that almost got her to stay.
At dinner parties,
she compliments your cutlery
then slices the conversation open.
Asks what you hate most about your mother
before the bread hits the table.
You’ll want to know her real name.
She’ll say something like,
“It’s carved into a tree somewhere,”
before you realize
you’ve already said it in your sleep.
And when you find the poem she gave you
weeks later,
crumpled in your coat pocket,
you’ll swear you hear her laugh
when you read the last line out loud:
“Don’t follow. I haunt better when I’m alone.”
She’s the reason
someone, somewhere,
is learning the difference
between being worshipped
and being watched.
And when she finally leaves—
because she always does—
you’ll swear you still smell
ozone, orange blossom,
and the beginning of a very pretty ruin.
She leaves you rearranged—
not broken,
just fluent in a dead dialect
that only speaks in warning signs.
You’ll start writing things
you don’t remember feeling
and calling it healing.
But it’s just possession.
The poem wasn’t for you.
It was the door.
She doesn’t burn bridges.
She just convinces them to jump.
She never really leaves.
She just sets the room on fire
and watches who runs toward the smoke.
(And if she ever comes back—
and she will—
don’t blink.
She’s made of edits,
and she notices cuts.)
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 11:59 PM UTC
Pretty red lips, ice dagger stare,
Secret truths laid to bare.
Pointy high heel pressed against your heart—
Piercing through is only a start.
They say not to, but really, who’s to stop you?
Pretty red lips, ice dagger stare.
They say not to, but really, who’s to stop you?
Secret truths laid to bare.
They say femme fatales never win,
But I reveal the hidden sin.
The self-righteous act grows old—
Who wants to do as they're told?
A void within, black hole filling in.
I get what's mine, until next time.
This emptiness drives me, a never-ending thirst,
A hunger so deep, it feels like a curse.
Pride in your chest wells up, you think "I’m your man."
You’re my next victim, according to plan.
You poor thing, you don’t stand a chance—
Every sin, a calculated dance.
One gentle kiss and a wink, you’re mine.
Snakes of deceit around your heart intertwine.
You say it’s wrong, and it’s your last stand,
But really, you know you’re in sinking sand.
They say to stay away, but who’s to stop you?
Those pretty red lips, that ice dagger stare.
They say to stay away, but who’s to stop you,
When secret truths are laid so bare?
Sep 27, 2024
Sep 27, 2024 at 6:49 PM UTC
Men love a good Femme Fatale.
But they do not love an ugly Femme Fatale—
So they plucked her naked,
gave her a nose job, and called her
a “mermaid” instead
{Siren}
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 6:14 PM UTC
You can kneel to pray,
before you commit one more sin
as you do every hour and everyday.
You can pray to avoid the calls of sin,
before you take on a bigger atrocity,
throwing both law and faith down the bin.
But rules are meant to be bent,
just like my body against the table,
or across the vastness of your bed.
But I am the revolution, your new law,
and you would learn the best way
that without me, you're as good as lost.
Oct 23, 2023
Oct 23, 2023 at 12:41 PM UTC
I can do this too, when I'm not au naturel
And trying to beat all of your @sses with how well
I make the gentleman, how excellently I am the imp,
How swell I step, dancing, aside, how terribly I simp -
Sometimes catch me getting back and giving the barman a chance -
I heeded their call; I washed off the day, and stepped into a trance
Of raspberry, rose and sandalwood; I donned my blue and pink silk,
And my black boots, tights and blazer - She's got style; And in that ilk
I also painted my face, with blues, whites, pinks, blacks, golds
And it was late when I stepped out, and in the very holds
Of the night that a lady like I should find terrifying, but I walked
The quarter of an hour to the Silk Mill; talked
For something more like four or five,
Face sharp, hair artfully mad, alive
In every sense, aided by the fine cocktails in this student setting
I could enchant all in four languages, and I did, forgetting
For a bit that another one of my faces I believe to be repugnant:
Because it begs for attention; and my current, commanded it
Because I came expecting nothing, and asking nothing,
And I quite frankly didn't give a d@mn about much of anything,
But if I wasn't very much a part of the room, and very much she
Whom every boy needed to speak to, and would ideally keep the company
Of, if that wasn't I
Then every lie's a truth, and every truth, a lie.
Mar 20, 2022
Mar 20, 2022 at 11:15 AM UTC
You are pathology incarnate
The sweat on your brow trick of the light
You were the first female
But you are no woman
Just a beast in the shape of a girl
Plucked one year before ripeness
A major at everything
A minor one way
Your eyes betray your true nature
Sharp, louche and depravity reined
Soot-yellow and one dollar green
Some might call it hazel
I call it dirt against your aryan gold hair
If you offered me fruit
I’d force myself to take a bite
So my soul won’t witness my guts feasted in the gutter
Carnivorously carnival-carved cadaver
Stamped under your cigarette-stained heels
Cherry cola chipped out of chapped lips
Cos I didn’t dare take a chockfull
You’re the first girl who has ever touched me
But I’m just the fly on your fruit
Lilith Haefelin
The girl before Eve.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 11:33 PM UTC
Daisy flower scented for days
I'll pick you this day
& adore you for days
Your countenance poises celestial
Plaining contours from troubled faces
Regard it in awe
O ye searching men
Feel its serene impression
Piercing trails through each grain
That lies glaze over every staring eye
Fondling pupils taut
In caresses overwhelming
Mellowing all rugged souls tame
Biting every heart's lip
In kissy scenes elating
Daisy flower hear me today
Your company I've longed for everyday,
Won't you be mine all my days? 🙃
Jun 16, 2020
Jun 16, 2020 at 5:09 PM UTC
She’s the spider on your shoulder
Holding you, cold and tight
She’s all eyes, slitted blue,
And the longest legs you’ve ever seen
With flaming locks of orange
Which burn brighter than the embers
Of bridges she’s destroyed in arson
And when she smiles, corner to wicked corner,
It’s not hallowed beeswax on her lips
Which gives them that crimson hue
She’s slow and steady wins the race
That your pounding heart
Is susceptible to losing to
Saccharine sweet with a smile to boot
She will have you licking hers
Steeped in honey, polite and courteous,
She spins you into her silken web
Not even of lies, but you fumble regardless
And then she eats you whole
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 8:31 AM UTC
"I can’t figure it out.” She said.
“I like cigars,
and pretty dresses and crossing my legs.”
She paused,
then continued,
“And I like smoking cigars in pretty dresses while crossing my legs.”
She uncrossed them,
then crossed them again.
One smooth limb over the other.
Just like that.
“But I never seem to have a lighter on hand.
Could you— sir,
please light my cigar?”
“You see, I have no pockets to hold such things and my purse…
Well,
You’ve confiscated that, haven’t you?”
“Thanks.” She breathed,
and inhaled,
and exhaled;
Sluggish wisps of smoke dissipating into the air.
Just. like .that.
“I didn’t know L'homme was into women who smoke cigars in pretty dresses while crossing their legs", She said.
“I mean, how was I to know?
I only noticed him noticing me.
It was probably the way my hair was tousled like so,
Or how my lipstick shone a deep, dangerous rogue,
Or the way I sipped at my champagne…
That made him walk over.”
“But I never asked him to light my cigar
Or comment on my dress…
Or stroke my legs.
So when I whacked him up top over the head with my glass,
I bet he never expected it to shatter and split his skull like so.
He dropped so sudden, sir. I…”
Another ringlet of smoke, a sigh, an uncrossing and crossing of legs again.
“I had no clue,
what else to do,
But to sit still in my pretty dress, with my legs crossed, smoking my cigar trying to figure out...
Just how I'd committed ******
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
with eyes spotted with stars
and lips painted with blood
the perfect mix
of your best dreams
and your worst nightmares
she loves like Aphrodite
fights like a fatale
bleeding light
spitting blood
people touch her and warm
people abuse her and blister
with hair as soft as silk
but hands as rough as granite
she smells of honey and jasmine in spring
but tastes of rusty iron and lemons
her body is a wonderland
but her heart is hell in an ***** form
a voice as soft as fleece
but a scream as sharp as a blade
many fight for her
many fight against her
she is a shooting star
and a fallen angel
satan loves her
gods envy her
you won't learn her name
or her heart
but you’ll learn her history
and the list of names she broke before you
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
The countenance of her throne
epitomizes the state of her soul,
and this countenance I shall describe
but only to who may tolerate the details
of its most uncanny existence.
A clique of stallions
gallop about in a nauseating blur,
their red eyes glowering under
the amber light descending from
an ominous sliver of moon,
its mere presence prompting on
the inversion of the stars
and the curled screeches of
the morbid beasts
whose fur hangs darker than
the trembling eye of Hell.
Atop one lacerated saddle
rides Her Majesty--
The Queen of the Circus,
deranged like the specimen
she keeps in her company.
And,
with every cacophonic rise
of the carousel,
she howls,
her ******** cries as primal as
the stallions' untamed whinnies.
She bites her lip until
she can taste blood
(and ***
throws her hands to her temples
in ****** wistfulness--
pale limbs encompass teased hair
where decomposing acorns
(rotten kisses)
and bouquets of Nightshade
reside amongst the tangle
of Medusa-Esque curls,
amongst large, brown eyes
that sparkle gold under
the cursed heavens
which have been simultaneously
pleasured and scandalized
by the sight of her bare *******
clinging to sheer leotard,
by the sight of her body swaying
round the rusted poles that
have sunk themselves into the horses' skulls
like a ring sinks round
a glass bottle
or a lover's finger.
Of course, Her Royal Darkness
is more than just a Circus Queen.
She, indeed, entertains
a grand variety of morbid hobbies;
She is a Fire Eater
{spitters are quitters};
Grave Digger
{she dances the Charleston atop
treasure chests of bones and
bones with carnival mobsters};
Crystal Ball Prodigy
{reading palm | l|i|n|e|s | like
p
o
e
t
r
y};
Ring Mistress
**** or ****
purr or bite--
what shall it be?};
Acrobat
{knees perched above shoulders,
a man's mouth between her legs};
Ventriloquist
{"I'll steal your breath away, darling."}
Why yes!
She is a Jaqueline of all trades.
"Pick a card! Any Card! ..."
"Is this your card? ..."
A heart is drawn,
cleaved between her teeth,
each pulse of vein
a magnificent drum beat
against her tongue.
With the blood of her prey--
juices as thickly sweet
as candy floss--
she marks her territory,
parades her ****
a pink handprint
smeared across the hide
of each stallion.
"What dizzying artistry...
how lovely--
how...insane,"
she laughs,
each high pitched giggle
a homage to the maddening musings
of her soul
(and her throne.)
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia--
Goddess of hearth,
warmth,
embers that do not fade,
for they glow as softly
as lightning bugs.
But this time,
I will not be returning home.
Don't you see?
I've burned it down already.
Perhaps there shall exist no redemption
for my pyromanic sins.
They could not save
Sylvia Plath
as she ****** her head into the oven,
carbon monoxide stealing away
her last strands of breath.
(Sadness climbs up my throat in
stalagmites of flame,
rises from the chasm of my soul like bile,
like a phoenix reborn.)
They could not save
Joan of Arc,
whose flesh screamed out among
the ringlets of fire
and threads of cinder
that consumed it
so mercilessly.
(No, I am not a witch--
just a demi-goddess,
just a dangerous woman
But, unlike Joan of Arc,
I am no Saint either.)
They could not save Pompeii
whose inhabitants lay
victimized
asphyxiated
stolen
by the magma regurgitated by
the Almighty Vesuvius
(I cannot decide who I am
more similar to--
the inhabitants of Pompeii,
or the lava itself)
Perhaps then,
there is no saving a woman like me--
a woman forged from brimstone,
Hell's very own Femme Fatale.
I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone like its fragrance;
braid singed ribbon into my hair,
its ends charred and
curling upwards like tendrils of smoke;
rouge my lips with gunpowder.
Kiss me and
bite the bullet, darling--
make love to me
and you will combust.
But oh!
How these men will bite their lip
at the thought of
******* me,
of dipping their fingertips
into the molten pools
that dwell between my thighs
similar to the way
a mere girl
(I, 16 years old)
is fascinated by the prospect
of baptizing her own melancholic
hands in candle wax.
(Who's the real ********* here, Baby?
Sincerely,
your Filthy Pyrophilliac.)
I am a
shadow charmer,
arsonist
the Siren
of this Inferno
(wanted for her crimes).
Perhaps I was never the epitome of darkness,
perhaps I simply
lured the darkness towards me
(sorrow and the devil too.)
It's funny now that I think about it,
how the stars too reside in darkness,
how, when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on fire.
And where there is fire,
there is destruction;
it's no wonder all these dreams--
those of
love
magic
poetry--
have shuddered to ash.
Still, l I find myself making
snow angels in the ashes,
stick my tongue out,
let the remnants of desire
scorch my taste buds.
Here I lie
like an extinguished cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.
But that's just fate,
stars ain't too fond
of nicotine, ya see,
ain't too fond of me
even though the very atoms
that comprise my being
are made of the stuff of galaxies.
But, oh, how these galaxies
have escaped my brooding grasp.
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--
chew on matchsticks,
let the splinters sear themselves
into my tongue;
lap at the iridescent gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely streets corners;
howl beneath paper lanterns,
for both the sun and the moon
have forsaken me.
I do whatever it takes
to remember where I come from--
a state of limbo,
wherein I am simultaneously
angel (falling) |and| demon (the fallen)
What am I without flame?
Flame--
they could not save me from it,
from burning.
But perhaps the peril was never in burning;
perhaps it was in burning out;
perhaps it was in disintegrating.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:20 AM UTC
how would you address
me?
if i wear this tight black dress
as dark as the nights
i might
spend with you
and might not
would you pay for me
at the restaurant?
thinking that you have already
won my sympathy
by this act of courting
tradition
hoping that i'll kiss you
on the first date
in addition
or will you blame me for my
female magic spells
because this is what tells
you
that i am just another
pragmatic *****
in a dress that made
your breath
hitch
tricked you into this act
like it's not
a well-known fact
that i went out with you
just because you
wouldn't
leave me alone
and i couldn't
defend my own
without my make up
nice smiles and black dress on
so how will you address me
after that?
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC
The girls wear lipstick - red or black. They wear it for themselves or at times so like dogs or war criminals they can mark their territory.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
she's a wild unconventional girl
her hair flies about her in wisps
she seems to be the one with bare feet everywhere
her friends call her a mystery and a tease
but not in the alluring curl-of-a-finger sort of way
in the way that she is deep
deep as her eyes are blue like the ocean
eyes that are so old, they tell stories of pain
buried beneath layers no one will ever see
including this femme fatale herself
she attracts those with the purest hearts
she doesn't even corrupt them, just makes them think too much
she's the other woman who is as beautiful as her photographs
she throws her head back when she laughs
she is familiar to everybody and yet always seems untouchable
if you touch her you are brave or a fool
she will always be that one
the one that got away but also you got away from
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
she's still coming-of-age,
like those bad films with those bad boys
trying to tell her secrets that aren't really secrets;
to lips that only turn out tricks.
they all don't dare forget her
because, when she leaves,
she's never gone too long.
she doesn't have time for quitting--
she's a dreamer with an "ever after" in sight.
she's a winner, she's a sinner.
get too close and, you won't regret her,
until she's left you for dead,
lying half-conscious;
gasping for more in the a.m.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
As I’m standing in the spotlight
I see look-alikes swiftly passing by
But none of them pull off
That red dress like you do
And I follow very thorough
Each and every one in my mind
But all roads lead to home
Where rooms are filled with memories
You’ve always had me caught
Between the fire and your vicious sensuality
Playful debauchery
I’d never would have thought
That everything would end up in this way
As you take me by the hand
And lead me down memory lane
A love in black and white
With hints of perfume in the air
You hold on to the leading role
Despite the fact that you’re long gone
But no-one would be able
To replace this femme fatale anyway
With passion and despair
You always lured me into petty ambiguity
Mental disparity
If only I had said
That life would stop being the same
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC