To the Patron Saint of Lost Causes

I am the Queen
of Mixed Signals.
I have dancer's feet and swaying hips;
I am at home in unholy high heels
And darkened dance clubs call my name.

I play love like it's a game.

Like a spider,
I will draw you in by your weakness,
Disable you with pleasant poison,
Then cast your carcass,
            half-alive,
To the side -
And move on.

(They are never so sweet as I anticipate.)

I am the Queen
of Mixed Signals -
Of warm words between barbed kisses -
Of honey cut with vinegar -
Of parted lip smiles and pointed teeth -
Of romantic candlelight on an autopsy table.

I play love like it's a game.