My Vice, My Style

My Vice, My Style

Purple like a poppy that’s broken and bleeding,

A beautiful warning to those who come needing.

I bloom in the shadows where secrets run wild,

With a wicked little smile — my vice, my style.

I whisper to moonlight, I dance with the night,

I hide all my demons beneath candlelight.

The darkness knows my name, the wicked know why,

I never need heaven when hell passes by.

I wear my scars proudly, like jewels on my skin,

And welcome the madness that sleeps deep within.

Don’t look too closely, don’t ask me to smile,

There are things in my darkness that stay there a while.

A broken purple poppy, still daring to bloom,

A kiss from the shadows, a scent of perfume.

I’m sweet when I choose to, but wicked when riled,

A mystery wrapped tightly — my vice, my style.

So follow the footsteps that vanish at dawn,

Where the lost little secrets are whispered upon.

But beware of the woman who walks through the night,

For some broken flowers still know how to bite.

I’m not here to fit in, nor beg to be seen,

I’m the beautiful danger that lives in between.

A little bit wicked, a little beguiled,

And completely, deliciously… my vice, my style.

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