He doesn’t know that I know he has a reputation for-sleeping with his young students, a master love maker, charming them to bed and doping them up on lies, A master relationship faker.
He doesn’t know that I’ve been warned by the skeletons he keeps in his closet, how their boney fingers point to the door or how his tabby cat whispered, “run!”
In the kitchen sat the element of surprise— with hair as dark as a ravens and vindictive eyes, laughing, seasoning human hearts with paprika and lemon juice as the professor and I spoke of Edgar Allen Poe. He doesn’t know that she knows that I know they are waiting to eat mine.
I’ve been told by the souls of the heartless that somewhere is a picture grotesquely aging in his attic- but I don’t care. When we sleep I can hear the wails of the lonely forgotten promises drifting through his house, warning me- be careful of the lingering lovely in his eyes, or the charm laced in his kiss.
He has a reputation for making love to his young students. But I don’t care-I gave my heart away some time ago. It’s only with my body that I love, and this he doesn’t know.