What a twisted show they display. They smile and gawk and stare with wide green eyes, or blue, or brown, and bat their lashes as if to say, "Try and catch me." With their winking and wanting and craving and spurning, they ensnare their pray with a web of falsified rants. Their long hair glowing, their short hair yearning. Look at the cat, go get your bat.
From behind a curtain their motif plays, and stalks and stings and lingers, until you've reached too many times into the disposal, and now you have no fingers. Their waving and wanting—a manipulative facade. Forgive the doll she is sewing, a perfect life with no showing.
So beg and itch and call to me, for I am laughing. Scratch and scream and sew your seams, pardon your means and forfeit your dreams. Embrace the queen that grants you wings. Still, I laugh.
And in the end it's all but went, your curtain unfurling. The mask you play upon your face is not but burning. Reach out with a familiar zing, play your jealousy, I'm not telling. In the end your witches bend, break and hack and burn your plan. I laugh when you step up to the plate. There it passes, and you're not learning.