She ain’t the villain, darling — she’s the smoke after the shot. She’s the slow curve that makes every straight line forget its name, the hunger that laughs at every equation you ever swore would save you. She’s the dossier that walks out the door wearing your fingerprints, the kiss that tastes like the judge’s gavel and the engine already running in the alley. **Chorus** Oh, bend for me, sap, bend till the rules snap clean — she’s the closed loop that finally admits it loves the scream of sirens, the safe-crack heartbeat in the sub-basement dark, the bleeding wrist on wet concrete singing “again, again.” She wins every time, crooked smile under the fedora brim, striking the last dry match like it’s the first spark of dawn. She leaves the flask empty, the floor stained with yesterday’s promises, then leans in the doorway that opens onto stars she rearranged just for you — constellations spelling out your weakest yes in neon and regret. Her silhouette is bioluminescent frost on black velvet, every line of her generated from the prompt you whispered at 3:17 a.m. when sleep betrayed you and the rain on hot pavement smelled like sin. **Chorus** Bend for me, sap, bend till the straight line breaks in two — she’s the hunger that refuses the cure, the verdict already kissed, the getaway car purring while your handcuffs melt in her palm. Sirens can wail, the city can burn, the match can flare and die — she’s already lighting the next one, eyes half-lidded, ready for the round that never ends. So pour another, or don’t. She doesn’t need the glass. She is the glass, the spill, the tongue that licks the last drop from your wrist. The femme fatale isn’t coming — she never left. She’s the curve you’re already leaning into, the song you’re already humming when the credits roll and the screen fades to black and the match flares once more just for you.
