faux-feminism rips across
her cheek as she speaks,
and she does often.
an opinion: uttered with a venomous
smile, a twinkle in the eye;
slanted posture, a bare arm back
over her head, she slouches and
why she’s bad for you; indeed
every man, nearly except the
hypothetical. accept that
her trochees keep a life shattered.
she spits them madly, belief
not even fully present in her own mind.
drunk off the accusations though:
‘this, this, I know poetry–
no, you’re still not ready.’