Her hair may smell like sweet summer rain
and her smile always settles weirdly in your stomach,
but she is poison.
She will not come back
because boys will be boys,
with their tousled hair and heavy brows
and all of their hard edges,
and she will love them for that.
No matter how hard she bleeds before
he gives way for her,
she will melt into him.
And tonight her night skin’s being shed by calloused hands
within her first hour out at the bar.
And in a few hours’ time, she’s battling her hangover,
her head in your lap.
And you comb through the mess of her hair
and tell her that she still deserves better.
She says she knows that already.
What she doesn’t know is that you do, too.