Autoandrophilia

Femme Fatale need not be introduced. 

They’ve had her since they could 

                                                                         pin

                                                                                her 

                                                                                       down   with their reed-pens. 

 But do they know Masc Fatale? Where were you in the history books? 

Making me s w o o n in your men’s-section slacks and secondhand boots.

  Hook, line, and

                               sinker,             reeling me in with your carabiner. 

 Let me graze my fingers tracing the edge of your   square   shoulders. My very own Pygmalian. 

Did it hurt to sculpt yourself out of marble?

 It’s a different kind of sexy. One that whispers 

                                  not so much admire me but

                                     admire what you could be. 

 We both know damn well desire doesn’t mean shit till you feed it to the frenzied wolf within.

 It’s all in your undead gaze  – If looks could kill, 

                 twin fireworks,                                                 two heretics,

                                         bleeding out on the pavement. 

 And in my last moments               I’d reach for you,            always,     always    reaching   for you.