She was that kind of woman. You know the type.
Dark, sultry, moves like a tiger, her mouth full of flowers and lace and smoke rings.
The kind of woman with a smoking gun, a slanted veil, a painted cherub smile.
The kind of woman that would make you kill a man, chase false leads, stay in your cage with a stupid grin.
The kind of woman you think is innocent, that you want to be innocent.
The kind you want to help, to give your life for, to bleed out in the gutter for.
She was that kind of woman. The kind that could wear nothing but a domino mask and elbow length gloves. Tear drops and rain drops as accents to her halo.
She was the kind of woman we all thought was ours at one time. The type that loves with gnashing teeth and poisoned claws.
She was that kind. That femme fatale that, even though we know we are going to be fucked and heart broken at break neck speed, we fall madly in love with.
The kind of woman you’d pull the trigger for just to see if those lips would curl into a smile.
The kind with the cracked and bruised soul.
The kind with one foot in your grave.
She was that kind of woman that leaves you for dead, like now, your life pumping through a hole in your best shirt- and you smile, wishing for a cigarette, her smell still on your fingers and lips- and you smile, through blood and a broken nose because, though you may be dying, you don’t regret a second.
She was that kind of woman.