Friday, September 5, 2014

The Most Dangerous Plaything...

I long to paint my pixie pout the color of fresh bruises and crushed rose petals - a cruel, sadistic cocktail of pleasure and pain. It's what you taught me. It's the girl that you left behind.

I slick on my signature blood red nail polish - not merely because it is the glamorous thing to do - but because I remember your blood on my jagged nails and I refuse to forget all of those things that you did to me - I refuse to pretend that the past is irrelevant - you will forever lurk in my mind.

I take a sip of a rich bordeaux. I can feel the sting of hatred begin to rise and pulse through these fragile blue veins. I can remember you whispering to me, "Please, just for me..." - I can feel the firm grasp of your rough hand on my slender bronzed shoulder...I can still feel your hot breath on the nape of my neck. I can still smell the scent of stale cigarettes. I can still feel your rough cheek graze mine...

You have created the most dangerous plaything, my love - you have created the ultimate seductress - the femme fatale!

And baby, when you die, I won't cry for you.

 "Whore!Whore!" - the girls in the neighborhood would scream at us as we walked by. Twelve years old. You made virgins into whores. God curse you all. Where are you now? Old, decrepit, and decaying. Our beauty was never meant for you. One day, we will have our revenge...until then, dollface...

Comrade Von Pussycat

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