She’s a wildfire in stilettos, kissing saints then skipping town,
lipstick prophecy on the dash, his name already bleeding out.
Cash in the glove, heart in the rearview, every promise a loose thread—
she laughs like a siren, bolts before the echo hits the bed.
“Love me?” she smirks, “Better learn to lose fast;
I’m the storm you chase, never the girl you catch.”