She wears her heart on her hand as a soft reprimand
from a day on a date with a dud of a man
who had taken her places she’d soon understand
were distressing, disturbing, disgusting, unplanned.

After hours enchained and rubbing her wrist
and attempting escape via many a twist
when she found herself freed from her once enslaved tryst
she instantly acted upon a quick list:

and firstly, she opted to never blind date
for the predators met could be less than eighth-rate.
Second, accept not one bite from a plate
that she hadn’t seen prepped, lest she end up as bait.

Thirdly, she went out to get the tattoo,
the first on her form, a suggestivist clue
to remind her precisely the innocent who
she had been before the night she’d been through.

The image she wears above wrist, etched in ink
is a heart that is strong, Whole. And yet, mine sinks
as she tells me her tale of a night on the brink
and how, facing dark chaos, she scarcely could shrink.

For her pain and her bravery put mine to shame
and I wish I were writer enough to put name
to the feels that I feel when I think of this dame.
Still, I glory that none have yet tamed her flame.