A whore is when it does not sore

20130224_5775

20130224_5857

20130224_5894

20130224_5898

20130224_5909

20130224_5918

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 wine on the floor, spread your soul like your longest legs. My legs were never meant to walk, my eyes were never meant to see, my soul was never meant to die. I choke, I break, I wait and see through smoke and tears. Hands are holding my head, my arms, my life, my bones, my tight rigid thighs. They grasp the narrowness of a body that will never keep up with the rapid, rabid flow of thoughts. I’m the one to be placed in front of mirrors and cameras, I never tire. That’s what they always say, that’s when they grin and say “you swore, you are a whore.”. A whore, a whore is when it does not sore.

photos by Valeriu Cătălineanu

Advertisements

One Comment Add yours

  1. fabulously decadent!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s