This is an image post. Inspiration for this sketch came from this image.

She is many things to many men.
Whatever they want her to be.
Quiet for this one, argumentative for that one.
Chaste, demure, aggressive, wanton, demanding.

She has many skills, whatever she needs.
She understands books, movies, ideas well enough to have them explained to her.
She can cook perfectly well, but she’s always happy to go out instead.
She doesn’t mind dancing.
She can sing, slightly, prettily.

She’s never alone.
She’s always in a group, laughing, drinking, shouting.
They crowd the tables in the late night diners, close out the bars, throng the streets.
She’s always drinking, never drunk.
She’s a good sport.

She keeps her teeth sharp.
She’s on a diet.
She doesn’t like the sunlight.
She doesn’t mind the night.
All her pets die young.
Her plants don’t survive much longer.

Radios play horrible static when she’s nearby.
Crows take screaming to the skies when she closes car doors.
Her old apartments have all burned down under suspicious circumstances.
No one knows what happened to her parents.
She keeps jars of rosemary, foxglove, coriander under her bed.

She’s been married seven times.
She never keeps her name.
She’s bad with money.
There’s always more.

She likes high places, streetlamps, roof gardens, obelisks.
She perches there on moonless nights and looks down.
Her hair shadows her face.
The streetlights sway beneath her taloned feet.
She is many things to many men.

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