i preen for satan

Bronze-toned eyeshadow hugs the crease, A flick of eyeliner brightens and sharpens the iris, A pinch of rose blush, applied on the apple of the cheek. The lips curled cat-like, painted the color of suffering.

Midnight curls of hair trail down her shoulder And a blackened dress reveals every curve of the waist With enough raw power to drop a man to

the

floor.

She walks on daggers, and moves with grace, But anyone foolish enough to think the effort is for them Would be sorely missed in their utter ignorance. She preens not for the kiss of a man, Nor for the promise of a free drink at the bar, But for her own satisfaction, A rare concept in and of itself.

Every

Come here often? is met with a roll of the eyes And a sway of her hips as she makes her way out, Leaving behind the devastated bodies of onlookers, Expressions aghast at her flippant attitude. Cursing words follow her, echoes of: Whore

Slut

Tease Her personal favorite never fails to lighten her day:

Witch But she doesn’t turn back.

If she doesn’t preen for the turn of heads, For whom does she dress?

Mustn’t she have a reason? If she doesn’t shop for a man’s attention,

 

Then why does she matter?

Mustn’t she be an object? If she doesn’t live to be fawned over, Then why is she here?

Mustn’t she have a purpose?

Her matte lipstick cracks by the end of the evening, But her self-satisfied smile doesn’t fade. Her legs tire of balance, But her soul fills with ecstasy.

For whom does she preen, if not for others? Heaven forbid she preen for herself.

If that’s the case She laughs lowly,

Then I must be preening for satan.