"Some Women Are Born Storms In Satin"
Th Teacher:
I don't have to try.
That's what unnerves them most.
The way I walk,
slow, deliberate
like I already know the outcome
and enjoy the wait.
My voice never rises,
but it lingers.
Low. Precise.
Each syllable a touch in the dark.
She listens to me too closely.
Like she wants to memorize the shape of my mouth
when I say "desire" during lectures on literary theory.
She doesn't know how obvious she is
how often I catch her blinking, dazed,
after I call on her last
just to watch her squirm
in anticipation.
I wear black today
silk blouse, sleeves rolled just high enough
to show the lines of my wrist.
Lipstick sharp as a dare.
A necklace that falls where I know
her eyes will wander.
When I write on the board,
I feel her stare.
Not at the chalk,
but the sway of my hips
hidden under tailored pants
and power.
She doesn't know I did this on purpose.
That I orchestrate each class
like a private symphony
played just for her.
That even my pauses are placed
where I can catch her biting her lip.
I've seen the way her breath stutters
when I glance her way too long.
The way her knees press together
when I tilt my head
and ask her to "stay a moment."
She doesn't know how dangerous I am.
How beauty, in my hands,
becomes a weapon.
How intelligence, in my mouth,
becomes something she could drown in.
I've read her papers
brilliant but trembling,
like she's trying to impress me
and not herself.
Good.
Let her.
Because there's elegance in seduction
when the prey thinks
they're doing the hunting.
I want her to keep thinking it's all in her head.
Let her dream of me at night
half shame, half ache.
Let her replay every moment I leaned in too close
and wonder if it was a mistake.
Let her drown in questions
while I craft the answers
beneath my calm, unreadable smile.
She won't last.
Not forever.
Curiosity always gives in to need.
And when she breaks
it will be in my hands,
against my mouth,
with my voice telling her exactly
what she is.
Mine.