" A Predator In Heels And Poetry"
The Teacher:
I watch her like one might watch
the last flame of a candle flicker
quietly, with awe,
knowing I'm the one
holding the wind.
She doesn't know
how loud her silence is.
How her questions bloom
not from confusion,
but desire dressed as curiosity.
That kind of innocence always falls.
It was never built to fly.
She walks into my class
like a secret walking in daylight,
pretending she isn't already mine.
Pretending I don't own
every stammer in her throat.
Every twitch in her pen.
Every time she forgets her name
when I say mine.
I speak
and the world bends around us.
She looks like she's listening
to ideas, to theory, to form.
But I've seen that gaze
drip like warm honey
down the lines of my blouse.
I slow my speech,
not because I need breath
but because she does.
She doesn't even blink
when I say her name.
She bites her lip like it's prayer.
Not that I believe in gods.
I only believe in power.
And she's giving me all of hers.
Willingly.
Naively.
I lean on her desk today.
Not too close.
Just enough for her to feel it
the curve of my leg beside her notebook.
The perfume of restraint.
She holds her pen tighter.
Good.
I want her to grip something
before I take everything else.
My tone is velvet.
My thoughts are flame.
She will learn this syllabus by fire.
By the end of term,
I'll be inside her spine
twisting how she stands,
breathing when she speaks.
And she'll thank me for it
in whispers
and wet notebooks.
I won't even touch her
yet.
I don't need to.
Predators don't chase.
They wait.
And I am very, very patient.