Femme Fatale

Her hair is a mass of yellow curls,
netted together like a rope hammock.
Loosen the knots and the rope chords are free,
Medusa’s serpents.
Her long chords wrap around me,
a boa constrictor’s death grip.
And as my life pours out
her eyes madden with delight.
My body falls limp,
cold blood, unmoving.
Why doesn’t she let go?
My heart has already stopped beating.





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