She was bleeding pheromones
like a dying soldier
fatally wounded, hemorrhaging, exuding
attraction by the gallon.
The way she walked
Seductively, celestially
killed them
(One down, only God knows how many more)
She knew exactly what she was doing.
I could tell.
The bodies were laid out
bagged, tagged, and embalmed.
Their epitaphs would read,
“Murdered by her.”
They never had a chance, you know
Her blood was like acid on their hearts,
their temptations,
their libertinism.
Cardiacide.
Her looks really could kill.
That beau monde undertaker:
who shattered hearts in time with a second hand.
