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.