An Ode to Rosamund Pike (or, Why I Love When Bitches Be Crazy)

My Love! I'm not delusional,
Despite what some may say.
I know you are an actress, not
The characters you play.

Be it a back-stabbing Bond Girl
Or fright'ning Amy Dunne,
There's a pattern to your choices
That makes you so much fun.

But though I know you're not them,
It's too plain not to see
That deep within there's a mayhem
That helps them come to be.

I'm scared of you, nay, petrified;
Fear strikes me to the core.
But that terror also excites,
I know you are no bore.

Nice, normal girls are fine, I guess.
Except, they have no fire.
For, really, in both heart and dreams,
It's whackos I desire.

Sure, looks and brains, there have to be;
They're not so hard to find.
But where's the joy or novelty,
if they don't screw your mind?

Time and again, I have been burned,
And so I ran away,
But now it's time to face the facts,
I simply love cray-cray.

It's not that I enjoy the pain,
Or having to compete.
Not knowing what they're going to do,
For me, that can't be beat.

So now that brings me back to you,
and to light refracting.
I know that glimmer in your eye;
I know you're not acting.

Whether it's wielding a sword
Or faking your own death
When you have crazy in your eyes,
It takes away my breath.

Burn down my boat or wreck my car.
Shave my head as I sleep.
All I know is I'm in your thrall.
I cannot go too deep.

Your children and your current man,
Are problems to be sure.
You know you must leave them for me.
They're for you to abjure.

So come, My Love, it's time we dance;
We'll make our own madhouse,
Where you can be the stalking cat
And I your willing mouse.