Ice Queen

He was like every other early advancer I had come across.
He thought dinner, and a movie (WOW), and some eloquence-lacking conversation would make my clothes fall right off in the passenger seat of his trendy 2009 Jetta.
He was just like every other 9 to 5, pink-tie-wearing,
drunk-off-Michelob-Ultra,
buy-your-girlfriend-a-Coach-bag-so-she’ll-keep-putting-out-kind-of-guy that makes me want to chuck my chilly ass off a train bridge.
He wouldn’t have known a real woman if she walked naked through Nordstrom with ninety grand worth of axe body spray
strapped to her back.
He said I think you are an ice queen, and I said well,
you and your nice jeans,
and your manicured fingernails don’t melt this iceberg.

I like a man who wears cut off t-shirts,
who can build cabinets with callused hands,
who drinks black coffee, shoots straight whiskey, but still reads me poetry by candlelight before we make wild love as dawn peeks its way onto white-washed walls.
I don’t need a man with fortune,
I want a man who appreciates the greens in the stems of wildflowers and
gets lost in the leaves of lofty oak trees.
I don’t need a man to protect me, I want a man with safe arms,
always open and optimistic and strong in principles, not in arrogance.
But you, you are not this man.
You are all the same.
With your spikey hair, and perfectly polished pearly whites,
and not a scar on your body,
because you’ve never done anything dangerous enough,
you’ve never taken the rough road through windy, dark streets.
You’ve never taken a chance,
you won’t even dance by yourself,
with the door closed,
and the lights off.
But I suppose I can’t fault you for this. Because it isn’t your fault.
It’s probably what everyone’s always wanted for you your entire life.
It’s what your dad did, and what your friends do,
and you probably think you’re successful,
and you may call me an ice queen now, but if you only knew the pictures I can paint with my tongue you would rip off that Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie bullshit and let me teach you a thing or two about living dangerously.
Because I am not your average Barbie bimbo,
but I can do back bends, and I can limbo,
but HIM though,
YOU though, you’ll never know what it feels like because to you,
I’m just an ice queen,
unwilling to give it up.
So you call me when you’re willing to give IT up.