A slick bun and a pencil skirt,
Takes firm notes on a clipboard
And click-clack-click-clacks through the hallway.
Her pointed nose and sharp eyebrows speak volumes.
You think you can read her like a book,
Her pages worn, her spine torn.
(She’ll pick your insecurities until you beg for mercy)
Tsk-tsk and a turn of her head,
Pursed lips and you know you’re done for.
The tights, the shoes, the tie, the hair,
All wrong, all wrong.
She’ll burn you through the floor
Until you are only ashes,
But you still want to please her,
You are no longer human.
Hollow, heartless, every type of empty
To cover up her burial ground.
Her wrists ridged, covering up nightmares,
Waking up drowning in her own sweat.
The Helpless Woman. Fear death by water.
Briefcases and pleated pants suffocate you.
Woman, you make money,
But even I could tell you that’s not the secret to happiness.
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