Siren

The beautiful women,

with their hair like rivers,

lips that curve into promises,

their eyes holding storms

and their hips moving

like something untamed,

wild as deer in the woods.

You see them-

and you think they are solid,

all that light,

all that skin smooth like marble,

but you don’t know the cracks

beneath the surface,

the sharp edges they keep hidden.

They are always on fire inside,

hearts beating against their ribs

like birds in a cage too small.

They carry wildness like perfume,

a scent of roses and smoke,

a flicker of danger in the way they laugh

too loud, linger too long,

at the edge of things.

And you-

you want them anyway,

even as they slip through your fingers,

even as you burn from the inside out,

because their beauty is the kind

you want to save.

But it’s the kind

that can’t be saved.

It is made of chaos,

and it is beautiful

because it’s never whole.