On paper
All her characters are men

In person
Her friends drink till two
She knows
They must love her like this
Like a burnt bulb
A firefly and cocktail straw
Her laugh is complimented
Her hair is orange burnt dark and thick

She talks men and breathes the femme
Out with it, shout it from the rooftops
Be free and go with them
The men and the drink and the love
A lonely tear stays behind
For the femme
She has been broken before and will again
The femme is naturale and yet what dies
Is a card not dealt