What is it About Men?

“It’s bricked up in my head, it’s shoved under my bed, and I question myself again: what is it ’bout men? , My destructive side has grown a mile wide, and I question myself again: what is it ’bout men?  I’m nurturing, I just wanna do my thing and I’ll take the wrong man as naturally as I sing and I’ll save my tears for uncovering my fears for behavioural patterns that stick over the years ” Amy Winehouse

I honestly feel that most days I set my heart up for failure. If giving my heart away was a crime, not only would I be a repeat offender, I would ge on death row without the option of parole. Every time I come up against the prison advisory board I plead my case so prettily, little lies of redemption seep from my lips, honest tears of rebirth roll down my cherub cheeks. There comes a point when the board refuses to see me any more. They are easily swayed by my incredibly persuasive arguments and always grant my requests for temporary pardon. They can no longer see the anguish in the depths of my gaze as my brown eyes become pools of tar; sucking you in and trapping you beneath the surface. After such genuine displays of emotion, they are credibly surprised by my repeat infractions.

“Oh my pretty little butterfly, how can you flit and flirt from flower to flower with such gusto; then allow yourself to be swayed by clammy, callused hands that bruise your wings and prevent flight? ”

Just as the oils from human hands cease the butterfly’s fragile form, so does the inability to establish lasting relationships crush a frail heart. And yet there is something about the spiral design of a club-shaped finger that draws the delicate butterfly. The pinkish tint, the scattering of lines, the creases the deepen or disappear, together they bait an independent beauty with the soft pulsing blue veins that hint of an intimate connection.

So softly, the mellow cadence of a trail traced from tip to source begs for a cursory review. A hasty, seemingly harmless landing followed by pillowed patter quickly becomes a delicious snack as the Dionaea muscipula enslaves and ingests. The hunter hesitantly lifts tentacle after tentacle to peek at the prey enclosed in the weakened center of a fleshy palm. With every brief movement, a damaged wing pleas for flight: the whispering of wind that uplifts a sacred body; a fleck of sunlight highlighting the intricate pattern of camouflage; the burrow of a gentle daffodil that creates a cozy cottage.

How quickly these classic comforts are forgotten for the adventure of an unknown master. How desperately these pleasures are felt when their option no longer exists.

What is it about men that permits a crippling loss of sound judgment by the mere hint of their interest?

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