If you bewitch men not expecting a witch-hunt
It's not your fault.
I remember a medical student, curious and passionate,
Only mildly mad
And terribly unhappy
That women dig their manicured acrylics
Deep into his heart, lick it clean,
And dispose of him like a rubber glove.
I was almost amused and pushed into saying
You don't fit her like a glove, oh dear love,
But he looked so genuinely miserable that I held my silence
Trembling at the edge of my lips.
He mistook it for some kind of support that borderlines affection
I had only known him for a day
And he took my arm and stabbed himself with it
Deep into his heart, my god,
And I ran, I ran like a woman whose eyes pierce a way through the crowd.