Friday, October 4, 2013

Whore Prose

I live the lie of language.

I am no woman- for a "woman" has a man inside her. 
I am a bitch. And a bitch has every man inside her. 

I am all consuming, devouring the universe whole. How many generations did it take for me to perfect this? How many of my mothers were fucked for me to learn that creation and recreation were the same? How many coats of mascara will make my lashes look deceptively coquettish over the face of lust?

You think I embody innocence. You think you can rest your head at my breast and find your solace. You think you can come inside me with that monumental shudder and I will simply arch back and gasp, my eyes wide with awe. You think you're special when I smile for you. You think my outstretched arm expects you to grasp it. You think I'm fragile and need to be held. 

You think I want your love

See that ruby blush frozen on my cheeks? See those diamanté lips? See my scarlet dress glimmering in the spotlight? That is not my body's adornment for you- that is the igneous crust I wear; the aftermath of my primordial outburst of lava, blasting apart my core. I am the cold face of granite. My heart is pretty and wonderful to hold but it will never beat for you. 

I am a bitch. I will always have six inches at my heel every step of the way. They will be trampled upon before they snap. And you- you're just another one of them.

I lead you on, oh yes, I do. I tell you lies, I tongue stories into every pore of your skin. I give you what were once my dreams. And you think they're real. But of course, I took the time to make it far, far better than the last time. I'm an excellent story-teller and you're a sucker for them, so why not make the best of it?

You will never learn the difference between the climax and the plot twist. You will come again, like you always do. And I will tell you another seven-minute story. Only bed-time exists while sleep eludes forever.