She is poison. She is venom of the worst sort. I find myself sitting across from her anyway. Worse still, I find myself wanting her, her poison be damned! Wanting to roll the dice and taste her seduction; without choking on the poison that always comes with it.
She is poison. She’s destroyed men I felt were much stronger than me. Still, I’m getting drawn into her eyes that study me, feeling her striping the clothes virtually off of my body, imagining all of the ways she will pull me in, desperate to wanting her touch.
She is poison, and I cannot help myself but to want a taste of it. I’ve always come to her rescue after she’s burned all the bridges down around her. I’ve always given her the shoulder to cry on, the understanding, the loyalty. Before now, I avoided the poison that she is. But I have lived my life avoiding poisons of all sorts. I have driven down the road of the straight and narrow and still have gotten rammed into. My life is currently a car wreck of metal and flesh and blood and bone. I hurt, I weep. And I am too tired to avoid a possible taste of poison now. From my current vantage point, dying from her wicked poison seems a fate better than dying from what already ails me.