The Beast

   

I like black hair

I mean oil slick Black,

closed coffin lid Black,

redwood forest at night Black. 

Red is a close second.

  Red becomes her.

I like her freckles…

the same way I like half finished drawings,

fingernails on flesh intimacy, smoking in the rain

and irredeemable villains. 

Sprinkled on hands, arms, face…

(I imagine other places too)

Little dried spots of blood

On flesh parchment.

Curves.  Just enough to draw my attention. 

Is there a more feminine shape?

A more perfect design to make man into brute? 

Her eyes are definitely not hazel. 

A stained glass oak tree

shattered!

 Pieced together by a colorblind

German expressionist,

a kaleidoscope forest,

all quadratics and angles.

She's pretty. 

Not Beautiful.  Not Gorgeous.

Just pretty.

Beauty is a crutch, it will fade into memory.

A pretty woman's allure is earned,

carved deep into set minds and petrified hearts,

with heavy time and sharp sensibility.

 It is eternal.

The typical fears men seem to have of women

 aren't the source of my terror.

It is the little monster whispering when she speaks,

licking my brain with her poetry.

I know it well for it dwells in me. 

What a wretched thing she must be.

Stripped naked and bare,

 vulnerable in each others eyes.

She could be my worst fear

or hope forgotten?

Either way… the Beast wins.