A Kiss is just a Kiss

"You've got one pair of lips", the professor tells her.

"There is this lower lip and this top one. Does that not constitute two?", she's quite wise.

Every morning she wakes up knowing exactly what has happened. It's a curse. The truth reveals absolutely everything.  She is completely naked in this cold, cold, world.

"A kiss is not a kiss if you just welcome it", she tells the 53 year old Dutch man.

"A kiss is always a kiss, little girl. Let me explain: You stand there oblivious to a truth that has been clear for years, a truth that tastes like chocolate, a truth that finds you inadequately irresponsible. You stand there knowing your feet will never hurt, your heart will never burst, your head will never think, and no matter how much you drink you won't stop being you. Let me explain: A kiss is always a kiss, whether on your lower or top lip. It will always taste the same. You've officially become easy. You are slippery when wet."

"I am wet because I drench myself with a lotion that tastes like heaven. A kiss is not a kiss, professor. A kiss is merely an offering of ones existence. I give out a little something that smells like teen spirit. It smells like a 90's big breasted pop star.  It smells like the blonde I will never be.  A kiss is never a kiss. It never will be. I am no one today, and until I become someone, my lips will just be decorating and coloring this grey and boring universe.

And you claim to teach?

You know absolutely nothing about the everything I am, professor."

And just like that he took advantage.

She was just standing there, smiling at a world she hardly ever gives herself the chance to enjoy.

He smelled good.

She had rubbed her odor on him and it was fantastic.

"You smell perfectly fine. Thank you for being just another," she whispers near his neck.

"Another? Another what?"

"Another part of me."

Breathing is easy when you get to walk away.
Kissing is easy either way.

Mirror, Mirror

Making remarks; those she will make when you are sitting in front of her.

Gestures, little hesitations to confide in you secret answers to all your questions. 

To respond correctly, properly, with a charm to charm you.

The mirror seems to like her. She kind of winks at it awkwardly but it's quite appealing. 

She flirts with a face so tender, mischievous but innocent. A face that only you pull out from her.

The best of her.

This is what you will give her.

The best of her.

The blush is on, and though it will come naturally, she plasters her face with a little touch.

The lips moist, though it's you who's expected to keep them temperate.

And she stares. A reflection of what you will see.

A reflection of the best she's ever looked, for in your propitious eyes you give her praise.

A tiny doll.

Dragged from under the sheets. 

Hidden from the world of others but not yours.

Yours is what she'll be.

You've become owner.

She's giving you permission.

"Attack" she yells, but the mirror doesn't answer.

"Attack, attack, attack, attack."

The silence is long and disturbing.

Impatience.

Resignation.

And suddenly, abruptly and unfortunately, her grace is gone.

And with that, so are you.

My Face

The moment always lasts long enough to hurt. Your head starts to beat, you heart starts to ache, and your undeniable desire to love loses the battle to boredom.
I turn my face.

I am well aware of my distinct, loathsome, and untamed disorder.  It has almost become a trait. The one and only characteristic you won't find in someone else. I am special. I shut the door, I walk away, I waste your time, and  I do as I can to get unfeignedly wasted on mine.
I turn my face.

The moment has  to last short enough to forget. Your head will start to wonder, your heart will start to rest, and your undeniable desire to love, luckily, will turn frigid.
I wipe my face.

For Sale

There is absolutely no doubt that she can be loved. I mean, starting from the fact that there was no paralysis and she's able to successfully open her wings and let the butterfly be taken. At this point it is up for grabs. Isn't that slightly tempting?

She's also got a heart, one that is known to look past bad postures, yellow zits, hairy chests, drug addictions, and selfish idiotic personalities. Of course she can be loved, who wouldn't want to love someone so accepting?

Today, for example, she wore some turquoise overalls. They make her feel like Humpty Dumpty, and she also sort of looks like an egg. She thought she looked sexy because she doesn't quite have the eye for looking. She sees without glare or stare. That's why she would find you, who ever you are, absolutely gorgeous. Now, wouldn't that be lovely?

Yes, the fact that she crashed her car against a tree was attempted suicide.  But she chose the tree that had, practically, no life. The tree, himself, looked tired and defeated. He also wanted to depart from this world, so if she hurt him, it was ultimately for his own good.

And she chose the night time so that no children could get a glimpse of the blood. She is quite considerate and meticulous, both in planning suicide and in giving presents. She is great during Christmas. Remember the holidays are around the corner.

There is absolutely no doubt that she can be loved. She is cheap and easy, I guarantee.

For more information, please contact me.

Broken Lucy Wins

He will have plenty of time to discover that Lucy is better than X. He will come to understand that you measure the "betters" by the humility of a person.  He will come to see that humility is the product of vast humiliation, and he will love Lucy desperately when he realizes how many rotten tomatoes have been tossed at her and have drenched her in acid moist.

He will have plenty of time to discover that Lucy is cuter than X. He will come to understand that you measure "cuteness" by the fear in a person. He will come to see that fear is the product of stolen innocence, and he will love Lucy desperately when he realizes how many sloppy hands have touched a body she wasn't able to claim as worthy.

He will have plenty of time to discover that Lucy is human and X is just a letter. He will come to understand that flesh is softer than silk and that tears taste better than wine. He will come to see that pain has got it's appeal, and although X's skirt is short and kinky, he will opt to take off Lucy's amish looking rag.

Worth the Lobe?

You are well aware of my staggering lower back. I'm pretty gorgeous, huh?, I mean, you see these two ears...the perfection of the lobe...It's not ordinary...

The world must be turning. I suspect that my heart has grown, as my intellect has clearly diminished because now, standing in front of you, I see you are lacking that bit of touch. You seem to have given up. It's kind of like you threw up on yourself, oh, and please, don't ever think it's ok to throw up on me.

What I'm saying is that, dispite it all, I like you..I do. You ask and I confirm. I'm well aware your vomit is just an illusion, but sometimes it hurts. It really does hurt to look at you. So if you are the least bit considerate, you must understand the frequent  frustration and regret I feel when I come to realize it's you the person standing next to me.

Again, that's not to say that I don't like you.  The thing is that I'm not a romantic and I can't just, like, love you fully and completely. That would be disgusting. There are conditions, and I must,also, condition you to follow my ways because I won't change for you; it's too late now to try and be clubby and tactful.

I've got the gorgeous and you've got the forgiving, does that make a team?  Isn't that truly the root of your question? Silly, you.

I am dying to be that fabulous woman standing next to the flimsy frog. The prince that will never be because he doesn't have the swagger, and therefore has no future.  I want to be your future.

"I do."

What Will

It was confirmed a decade ago. She has, recurrently, suffered from issues that are deadly. Today, 27, strangely feeling completely satisfied with little achievements, she realizes that life is a big ball of bologni and it is wasteful to address any of these issues. Therefore, she has guaranteed a long life for herself. In other words, she isn't planning to care, hence, she isn't planning to die. Nor by choice, or by so called accident.

The day she met him hasn't yet happened. Nonetheless, it will be an out of this world experience. He always dresses the same way. He smells like hardcore male deodorant and she likes it. She has stopped smelling like cigarettes because she instinctively quit days before meeting him. She now smells of toffee and caramel as a substitution to addiction. Sadly, she'll shortly be forced to quit on this other indulgence because he secretly dislikes it and has made it clear.

They both taste delicious. They like to think it's because of their healthy eating habits, but it has a lot to do with innate genes. Neither of their families has ever suffered from stinky breath. But heritage cycles change and, unfortunately, the baby will develop unpleasant traits in the now family.

Yesterday she would look into the mirror and see a girl with potential. Now, 27, she drew figurines around the mirror and the focus is no longer herself. As a mother the mirror will break because the damn toddler can't seem to keep steady. She will cut herself picking up the pieces and will hate her life for about 20 minutes. She will toss the trash away and will brightly choose to dispose of her negativity as well.

The toddler also tastes delicious. Bad breath and all, his ears are yummy and his tummy is silky smooth. A self made pillow. There will always be something to thank the husband for.

A decade forward she suffers from a deadly disease called love. It keeps her in bed often because her husband is one sexual creature. It also has to do with the postpartum depression, because a second child can really fuck up your hormones.

Luckily her bed is comfortable, and as she lies, either for sadness or lust, she is well aware that life is a big ball of bologni, and she might as well get up and make some dinner; preferably Italian.