She is whiskey in a teacup, swimming under the sunbeams of passions,
lightening at her fingertips painting a graffiti of wild dreamy fables.
Yet icicles are jabbed in her eyelashes, causing wrecks of ships and inaugurating museums for humans.
Her softness is the rune which summons demons to make you uncomfortable in your skin.
Suddenly, you are drowning in the river of Acheron. The best damn guilt-tripping trip, they say.
She will invite the ghosts of her self loathing past at a house party and get them high on aphrodisiacs of self-love.
She is polite formal debates pushing you in whirlpools of self-doubt,
She is the wolf you pet and the wild feline you overfed.
And when she burns you alive in the pit you dug for her, she will smile the most radiant smile and God, that smile, that smile brings Venus’ light to shame.
At that moment, you will know how dictionaries get an F for trying to define her.
At that moment, you will know how witches hunt the witch-hunters.
At that moment, you will know why women like her are called whiskey in a teacup.
This is the manual of your unbecoming, prepare well.
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