She

She’s a real hum-dinger.  A true hip swinger.

Watch her move that ass like a bullwhip master.

She’s a white-hot disaster.  She’ll hurl you to the floor just to watch you shatter.

Don’t you love her?  Don’t you want to run your hands up her legs in a rapture?

She’s a spell caster.  A skillful bag of meat with a black heart that burns while it beats.

Devouring you to the very last morsel licking her fat lips full from making you bleed.

She’s an addict.  A full-fledged vainglorious fanatic.

Her biggest admirer is reflected back to her in a bit of bad luck cracked mirror, like a cast-off Grimm’s brother tale too bad to publish.

She’s a ladder.  She climbs herself and pushes others down by their shoulders.

Her road strewn with bodies so blue they’re now broken down, decomposing and black.

She's a slick slip of a dress. The kind you wear once to impress.

Disposable, sheer, and exposed in the light her sex, empty power, and chest.

She’s a liar.   She wears it like a badge of honor.  Have a problem with it?  Then she’ll disown all you honor.  Toss you aside into a pitiless mire.

She’s seared in memory. A lesson learned through hard living and scar tissue history.