Just look at you,
playing the gentleman with the tailored black suit,
or the hero with strong, protecting arms
when you're really just another hungry wolf
dressed like an innocent lamb.
You love to make the girls feel special,
but none of them really are to you,
even if you might want them to be.
Sure, you can hold doors,
give out chocolates,
read love poems aloud.
Maybe you always know the right thing to say
at exactly the right time.
But you're just gorging yourself
on emotions like candy—
sucking them out,
savoring their sweetness,
swallowing, then seeking more.
No, you don't touch their bodies—
you're worse. You take their hearts,
sneaking and slithering slowly
toward what you know you shouldn't have,
never really getting it
or amounting to anything.
I see your nice guy face looking out at the world,
scanning the crowds,
staring back at me from the mirror,
but I can see past your disguise
and I know that you're really just a poor excuse for a man.