She weaves a web so heavy around you
That it clings to your form and you barely breathe.
Dry glasses seem as half empty,
(They were never full for her.)
Pulleys plastered to her face
To keep her screwed-in smile intact.

The kind whose mind is magnets
Pulling her face, her chest apart.
(Or maybe just the organs inside.)
Whose lips kiss you and hands touch him
And heart belongs to all.
(Or none.)

And she’ll string you along like the
Mutt she never had.
(Except for her, and him, and him...)
She’ll kiss you and beat you and love you and hate you
And keep you coming back for more.

She’s the kind who hates herself as much
As you ought to feel for her.
She’s the intellectual you strive to be,
The beauty whose seams are sewn into every thought,
The kind that could fall in love with you,
And she’d drive off a bridge if she could.

And because of that, she’s ashamed of you,
Of both your heart and your body parts,
Your hands are satin spiders,
Your smile, sour sunshine,
Your kiss, tortured toxin
Begging to bleed upon her own.
(And she desires them all.)

The kind who plays nothing but parts in facades,
Sings in a foreign language so they won’t see her tears.
She dances and prances and chances that maybe
You won’t cry over her empty heart.

(But it’s not so empty and you know it,
So you’ll cry anyway when only shadows watch you.)

She’s the one who held your hand for warmth
And dreamt of rooftops beside you,
Who promised you chances and shared your tears,
Who later “forgot” as if it was nothing.

(Mirrored memories shattered
Like the hearts we’ve sacrificed.)