I light cigarettes with the same matches I use to burn bridges - not out of revenge, but for the ambiance. I wear black, not because I'm mourning, but because my soul's too tired to commit to color. They call me dangerous, but honestly? Depression did most of the damage. I just accessorized it with heels and red lipstick. I don't chase men - I chase the void. It's faster, quieter, and at least it doesn't ghost me after two weeks. I seduce like sin and spiral like a Greek tragedy - beautifully, and with perfect posture. My lipstick's red, my humor's black, and my therapist is deeply concerned. Some drink to forget. I flirt, destroy egos, and laugh until the sadness forgets me. Darling, I'm not just a femme fatale... I'm the final scene before the credits roll.