Illusions, by Arika Elizenberry

by Arika Elizenberry

She’s your sweetie,
the confident beauty
in the hip huggers and
tank top whose eyes
sparkle. She’s not like the
others, you think, because
she doesn’t wear red
lipstick or have Daddy
stamped on her sleeve
She’s classy. Since you
believe a woman’s worth
lies in false bravados
and the clothes she wears,
you must be a class act.
You probably don’t
remember the first time
you made love to her. She
never want you, or it, but
to make you happy. When
your breath bruised her
neck and hardness carved
its signature between her
pink flesh, her pulse raced
to Venus. You weren’t her
lover, or man, but her father
and the Johns from Craigs
list. If she’d told you no,
or why she shuddered
holding your gaze, you
wouldn’t love her anymore.
‘Cause women like
her won’t boil over when the
heat is turned too high. They
know how to tighten the lid
and let the flames erode their
bones without making
a sound. They won’t
come with warning
labels like: incest victim
or instructions that say:
handle delicately. Rather,
they’ll carry a crown of
thorns and Wonder
Woman’s cape and lure
you in by their illusions.

Arika Elizenberry is from Las Vegas, Nevada and is a poet and short story writer. She holds an A.A. in Creative Writing and is currently working on her B.A. in English.


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