The Devil Does NOT Wear Prada

her smile is as sweet and sticky
as candy in a toddler's grasp,
her voice is kindly and teasing
indulgent even, hinting.
she never raised her voice--
at least i don't remember,
and there's times when i've had genuine joy
at her rules and gracious fetters.
she smiles and giggles;
and even insults
are hard to distinguish.
her approval makes the sunshine,
her dismissal, acrid rain.
so hard to describe her
like grasping shadows
like stuttering phrases
like swallowing dry pills.
i don't want to do her injustice
yet to do justice would be just so.
the depths of evil shudder at her presence
or maybe her ingenuity.
how can one be the balance of paradox
of a muffin ladened with the asp's sting?
how can a simple message
break the dam impenetrable?
how do simple questions,
insinuations, thoughts
do so much to break down and demolish
everything that i have wrought?
my own two hands are testimony
of the whirring of my brain
yet i'm at a loss of words and heart
when i sense her slight disdain.
words cannot describe
words cannot describe
describe her words cannot!
and now as i sit thinking
serene in my calm repose
the hysteria has long since faded
humor has replaced the hate.
i want to do her full justice
i don't want to exaggerate
i want it to be true and true.
right now i can smile
yet i still wonder in disbelief
how did such a woman come to be?
How?
Actually, don't tell me.