A whore is when it does not sore

Womb, never tomb, thumbs against thumbs, sore. My eyes, my eye-lashes, they sparkle. Look into the mirror, my chest is made of a thousand gold-reflecting mirrors. I smile crookedly, close your left eye, spread the mascara with its premonitory blackness. My cheeks – pink – they hide a fundamental paleness. Sit still, don’t spill the…