You, sir, are a shark.
Teeth sharp, wit to match, gleaming bright, entrancing,
mesmerizing the fish. I see you,
Shark.
Eyes narrowed, focused,
moving slowly with grace and impure intentions
like many men before you,
Shark.
Teeth sharp, wit to match, gleaming bright, entrancing,
mesmerizing every woman you smile at,
every stupid fish. You
Shark.
Eyes narrowed, focused,
watching from the edge of the tank,
like any intelligent woman. I, too, am
Shark.
You muster your guts
and feed through the fish to approach,
but that’s the thing about
Sharks.
They don’t mess with other
Sharks.
So you are either brave or stupid.
Or, god, I might be a fish.
They call me Spitfire. 