Your Typical Femme Fatale

but that's not exactly unseen behavior.

You've witnessed such slimy charm

and a face and figure that disarm before

you even shook my manicured hand

or ran your fingers through my sandy hair.

So clean the grit from beneath your nails,

you less-than-saintly saint who in days of yore

chased red lips, sculpted calves, and sultry tails.

We've both tasted eye candy for the mere sake--

or, in some cases, solely to manipulate--

not out of a purely passionate longing

to love, care, and adore virgin land.

I've lied and I've stolen, but I have also confessed

that I have falsely professed emotions

that were, if reality ever has a chance to speak,

as long-lasting as grainy seashore castles.

You swallowed pills and mixed up potions

to make yourself forget your flaws and sins.

But unlike Jeff and Jake, I strut to the tune of truth.

I don't claim to be the street whore and office slut

turned righteous dove flapping in honey skies.

I'm more honest than you and those other guys.

I recognize and admit, through bleached teeth,

waxed legs, glittery camisoles, and my tramp stamp

that I am nothing nobler than your typical femme fatale.