I feel
less volatile
less awake.
I've been biting my lip
livid.
Wearing my own blood as lipstick,
tears as mascara.
Whilst solidarity whispers dark words into my ears.
Meanwhile,
the crowds
they tell tales
of how pretty
I look.

I fear losing someone.

No, not to another.

To God.

But what I fear more is
losing someone
to God
and not missing them
not like I should.

Men?

Hah.

They come to me.
But they never seem to go as easily
as they come to me.
I'm a simple girl.
I want nothing more than to bathe in my solitude.
But these men,
so foolish by nature
they want nothing
more than to claim me.

They threaten my essence.

And so well
I hurt them.
So well I hurt them too - my dear
So well in fact
that they come for seconds.
And when I start hurting them
I can't seem to stop.

I carry their morsels,
their names
in my every stride
in my sway lies their broken hearts.
At night, I lay on a bed of virtuous compliments.
I adorn my flesh with their promises
my skin reeks of their tenderest secrets.
My dress
a construct of their desires alone.
You will hear their fervent pleas
from time to time
concealed so effortlessly beneath my laugh
a soft cackle.

It is true.

I have dulled many lives.
Yet I have never felt more alive.
Because my dear
I’m sure that you too
would agree
I wear them well

les garçons.

you tiptoe around them
as though they are museums
paintbrush in hand to dust their
egos
veil in hand to clothe their
insecurities
but tell me,
how do the exhibitionists serve you?