Sunday, May 13, 2007
She was odd, her skin pale and almost see through. She had the scent of beauty, the pleasure of a smile. She only has her heart to offer as her outer body was left in pain too long. Like a sunburned bug dried to the core. No one might choose her and her loving ways will be lost to the world. What a pity it’s all so fake.
Please do not look away as she needs to be seen for who she is, not what she is suppose to be. Can everything be so plastic, molded in perfect cups, molded to fit in a box? To fuck old men, in classy places, to lower your standards because you think this is how you will be seen. The bathrooms are filled with woman that has no clothing on, fix their makeup. Toilets over flowing to vile piss and puss boiling to the surface of humanity. Colour their skin with makeup and powders hide their true being. Between mascara lashes and between eye shadow the soul does not matter. You need to fit, so perfect in plastic, be fake, be not you. She will move her body in slow motion, like a breeze trough paper on the black pavement. No power needed in the world of plastic, no emotion needed in Botox. Lips a pout, legs are open, body used, as long as they are seen. What is left of you, when there is no more youth in your bones, and empty carcass of old stories, of sex in famous places. There is no substance, no soul, and no real life.
She will move trough the anger, the sadness, the fear of being ugly. Her soul will bring the butterflies of beauty to places of greatness. In words she will spell her heart, will spell her love, and will spell her happiness.