“She’s Always a Woman” — and That Was the Problem

There’s a song I used to sing. Not at karaoke. Not in the car for fun. I sang it quietly, tenderly, as if casting a spell.

“She can kill with a smile, she can wound with her eyes…”

Billy Joel’s She’s Always a Woman to Me.

Gods, that song. It fit her so perfectly it felt custom-made. Like some tragic prophecy hummed from the lips of an old piano man in a smoke-filled tavern. Every lyric? Bang on. Every note? A red flag in disguise.

I said it suited her down to a T — and I was right. Not in the sweet, “aw she’s a handful” way. No. I mean in the “she’s a narcissistic, gaslighting, emotionally carnivorous psychopath” way.

She could lie without blinking. Twist a story so hard it came out backwards. One second, she was the love of my life. The next, she was painting me as a monster to anyone who’d listen — while smiling at me like I was her salvation. I called it love. What it really was, was psychological warfare with cuddle breaks.

I waved away the red flags like a medieval peasant ignoring the plague bells.

“Oh, she’s just been through a lot.”

“She’s not really like that.”

“She just needs someone to love her enough.”

Yeah. That someone was me. And it nearly destroyed me.

She isolated me. Trained me like a dog. I had to walk on eggshells while convincing myself the broken glass in my soul was just a quirky vibe. And all the while, that bloody song echoed in my head like a spell I couldn’t un-cast.

“She’s frequently kind, and she’s suddenly cruel…”

No sh*t, Billy. You get it. You absolute poetic enabler.

The worst part? Even now, knowing what I know — the lies, the cheating, the manipulation, the smear campaigns — part of me still aches. Still wants to believe there was something real buried in the rubble.

That’s what a trauma bond is. It doesn’t shatter. It snakes.

But I’ve learned this:

Just because you see someone clearly doesn’t mean you owe them loyalty.

Just because you loved them, doesn’t mean they deserved it.

And just because a song suits her… doesn’t mean you should sing it.

I still hear that tune sometimes. But I don’t sing it anymore.

Now, I nod — and I remember.

And I let it be a warning, not a wish.

Because yes — she was always a woman to me.

And that was the fucking problem.

* * * * *

This story was written for Annie Kapur’s “Sing Us The Song Of The Century” challenge here on Vocal, and honestly the first thing that came to my head while reading her story was this one. Some wounds cut deep, and some scars may never heal. And sometimes, songs you used to sing with love and reverence become the stuff of tears and best-forgotten memory. I hope you enjoyed this story, and thanks to Annie for the prompt! You can find and enter Annie’s challenge here:

🪓 Like what you read?🪓

🪙 Then toss a coin into the fountain.

Make a wish —

for wilder words, sharper truths,

and more wild-folk with wild hair doing wild things.

Each offering stirs the water, feeds the fire,

and helps one such beast keep writing beneath the stars.