When One Door Opens The Secrets Will Come Flying Out.

Your door is right next to mine. I hear you come and go. I never thought of you as magnetic. Definitely not aristocratic. You are arrogant. You have a lamb. She is meek and naive. I have a beau. He is complaisant and sunny. Some days you watch from your window as I switch my hips and flip my hair. Some days I do a bit extra because I know you are observing my every move. Nightime falls, as I emanate smoke from my somber lips. You come to my door and you make your move. Like a Boa, you constrict me baby. Your hands are strong, like a sailor. I am the Siren, singing a song to sink your ship. My hips, like the beat of a war drum. Your hands, like a warrior looking for battlegrounds. This is dangerous sir. Let our lies not come undone. Make a promise. Lips zipped. We both know that undone zippers lead to trouble. Your lamb cannot be slaughtered. I am not like you. I am conscience deficient. You are a pussy. When the wreckage happened, you went Judas on me. I am not going to be a martyr. You are a scared little boy in a man's body. Take responsibility for your own fucking actions. You are no Casanova. Don't give yourself credit. You are nothing more than a skirt chasing, philandering puppy. You aren't even a dog because dogs actually have pride. Get over yourself. I used you for my amusement. You got caught. I did not. Who is the fool now?

If You Look Deep Enough, Family Portraits Tell the Truth.

Mommy's shoes don't fit me, I drag them around on pink carpet. Mommy's pearls don't fit me, They hang down around by my knees. Mommy's Dior caftans don't fit me, I let them submerge me into a fabric cocoon. I eclipse like the sun into darkness. Mommy's screams paralyze me, I don't discern. I am not scared of goblins under my canopy bed, I am petrified of the monster that lives under mommy's duvet. Mommy's Versace sunnies cover up her tumescent, bruised eyes. She drives me to school in her Mercedes wagon. She drives home. On the drive back she screams a scream Edvard Munch could never re-create. The colors of her screams are too crimson to mock with acrylics . Daddy goes off to work. He begets magic out of numbers. His charisma beguiles the unknowing. Daddy fucks his mistress. Daddy's mistress has wide hips. Mommy waits for daddy, while the pates au fruits de mer gets colder. She taps her manicured fingers over and over, like the rhythm of a war drum. Daddy fucks his mistress analogously to the beat mommy makes with her hands. Daddy walks through the door. Mommy does not greet him with a kiss. Mommy calls him a bastard. Daddy closes his fist. Daddy lollop's mommy's face. He persists. He breaks her. Her mascara runs. He apologizes. She outwardly accepts. Day after day, Repeat.Repeat.Repeat. Little girls eyes never forget. Little girl grows up. Little girl finds a suitor just like daddy. Little girl now has Versace sunnies to cover up her swollen eyes. Now mommy's shoes fit all too perfect. Little girl walks in them everyday. Little girl has a little princess of her own. Little girl has a glass house, white picket fences and all. Little girl impales herself on said white picket fence. A For Sale sign swings in the winter gust. The palace a vacant space. Little girl's obituary runs in the New York Times. Little girl died of natural causes, she was a beautiful creature, full of life. She leaves behind a daughter five years of age and a loving husband. She lived the suburban dream. She died in a suburban nightmare, but not one soul would ever know because the family portraits told a lie.

An open confession of a bad girl- Pt. I

I am an insubordinate little thing. I am a pornographic enigma of what a woman should be. I am a liar, cheat, bandit, heister, prowler and kleptomaniac. I am obsessed with my weapon. My weapon being the gift that god gave me. Helen of Troy has nothing on me. Bringing a man down is my area of expertise. My finesse lies in the movement of my hips. My hips are like a siren song to a mans ears, luring and enticing them. It all comes easy to me. Sometimes it seems as if I were predestined to be a vamp. To be the woman to break up homes and cause other women infinite vexation. I recall the first time I ever manipulated a man besides my father. Let's call him Daniel. Daniel was my 12th grade math instructor. He was far from a looker. I sensed that he was a lonely man, a man who was naive due to the fact that women never paid him any attention. He wore sweaters, not much different than the ones Mr. Roger's had an affinity for. His hair was sparse as were his lips. I never had a knack for arithmetic, but what I did know was one me plus one him equals my advancement in future endeavors. I so desperately needed to pass, otherwise I would have no choice but to repeat senior year or put a hair net on and flip burgers at a fast food joint. Neither one an option. So while all the other girls in class studied hard and did their homework, I made him hard and did zero homework. I had him in the palm of my hands, literally and figuratively. I worked harder than any other dimwit in that class and in the end I had a diploma and he had the notch on his belt. It did not stop there. Once I saw how easy it was to sway men with promises of sex and perversion I adopted it as a career. My next victim, let's call him Mark. A lovely fellow, dumb and horny. A sales associate at Bergdorf Goodman and a wannabe actor. I met him while shopping for La Perla lingerie ( I was going on a trip to Mallorca with Mr. CEO, I will get to him later). I spent quite a while showing him all the items I was interested in, I could tell already that I had him worked up so I went to the fitting room and so conveniently asked him for help fastening my garter. He asked me to dinner, I obliged. I told him all about my lust for designer labels and how hard it is to attain it all. By the next week I was receiving Louboutins, Jean Patou eau de parfums, Hermès leather goods and scarves. I knew that he was swiping them from work ,although it was an unspoken word. A little while after he got busted, called me for bail, I pretended not to know who he was. Did I feel sorry? Not one bit. He was silly, he deserved it. He got an orange jumpsuit and I got gifts in those precious orange Hermès boxes. So now you are probably thinking, what a INSERT EXPLETIVE HERE. You are correct I never deny the fact that I am a Jezebel. While this was all going on I was rendezvousing with MR.CEO. He was my boss at the PR firms third husband. Funny back story, I dated her son to get the job. Set up a sting so he would cheat on me with my gay best friend. He was caught with his ass out literally and I moved up the ladder at work pretty quickly thanks to him. Its amazing what a bottle of Devils Springs, a closeted gay rich boy and a polaroid camera can do for your career. Back to Mr. CEO. I met him at a dinner party that I was invited to on behalf of my monster of a boss. She paid little attention to him, as most prominent Manhattan wives do. I began to conversate with him about stocks, yachts and art. I took interest in the fact that in college he was a free spirit who painted. He confided a lot in me in a very short amount of time. I did not plan on starting up an affair with my higher up's husband, it just, well, fell in my lap so to speak. I was busy running around buying gifts for christmas,when I got side tracked by the rare Audrey Hepburn book in the window of Strand. So I walk in and I see him browsing around. I walked over said hello and noticed he had a worn out copy of Junky by Burroughs. I was impressed. He invited me for sweets at Serendipity. We had a wonderful time and load of things in common. Next thing I know I am at 15 Central Park West, In the penthouse, riding my bosses husband on Pima cotton sheets. It was the beginning of a very lucrative move in my "career". Quite possibly one of the best moves I ever made.

Is it so wrong to be submissive?

My knees are bloody. I am far from a chaste being. No one knows what it is like to be a girl. A girl who is a libertine. A girl who refuses to live within the lines of social stigma. Society says a girl should be virtuous, have combed hair and never let any four letter words slip from her pretty cherry blossom mouth. LOVE is a four lettered word that is allowed to be spoken. A girl should be obsessed with love, loving and giving love to only one man. Fuck that. I am the kind of girl who refuses to comb her hair, likes to make men beg, loves the idea of lust and debauchery. LOVE is a curse, a disease that is meant to eat away at your being leaving nothing left but rotting bones. The theory of giving your heart to another person is a farce. I would rather spread my limber legs to a stranger than give my heart to a man that has no intention of giving reciprocal sentiment. DON'T is an expert four lettered word. I DON'T sit around, biting nails to cuticle wating for a call. I DON'T glutton my sorrows away with ice cream and delights. I DON'T wait for the day I see his face again. I WILL ignore your advances for redemption. I WILL laugh when you squirm under my flat gaze. I WILL make damn sure your suffering is grand. I WILL FUCK your enemy, just to FUCK YOUR SELF esteem up. I WILL FUCK you one more time in YOUR bed, leaving my scent on YOUR sheets and my lipstick on YOUR DICK. I WILL MAKE SURE you FEEL PAIN. I WON'T be stopped. I am a CUNT, a HERO, a LIAR. A wrecking BALL, set out to destroy YOUR stability. FUCK you, FUCK society. I am who I am. If that makes me LESS of a GIRL, then I am tickled PINK to be just that. I WILL be MORE than thrilled to SUCK, FUCK, KILL, and BLOW you the FUCK AWAY. Use my TITS, LIPS,HIPS and EYES to BURN you the FUCK DOWN. I am REAL. I am FAKE. YOU WILL WISH to be LIKE me. JUST LIKE THIS GIRL.

She loves you no less.

When I met you I thought you were quite grand. A vision to my hazy eyes. I saw clear for once. You had a haughtiness in your step and a shake in your hip, your shimmy could drive any prudent lady, stark raving mad. Your eloquence and thoughtfulness bewildered me. I never knew a man could speak of worldly things with such passion and substance. It was the little things that added up in the complex equation that I called my love for you. Solstice never seemed so bon bon, laying next to you. I got lost. I vowed never to become "that girl". The girl who let the glare of fallacious circumstance drop her to her knees. You took a part of me. Maybe that was your angle all along. You had that classic way about you. The gentleman. Your slang like that of some old time crooner. Darling, babycakes, kiddo. You made me feel like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. You were my Humphrey Bogart. Our first kiss was immaculate. I felt a million different things all at once. My consciousness was of another world. When the kissing led to touching, the touch was rapturous. Death by embellished hands. When the touching became lascivious, it was ecstasy. Death by amorous delight. They all warned me about you. They said you were nefarious. They told me about the drugs, the vices, the older ladies and the lies you always told. They told me I was nothing more than a trophy to you. Another conquest on your map of destruction. I never believed them. I came crawling back. Begging, pleading, promising to be better this time around. My mascara stained cheeks gave you such delight. You felt like a winner of the world's greatest prize. You made nice, we got on again just fine. We ran the streets of manhattan holding hands, laughing in the face of the naysayers. We fucked In the Angelika, while a silent art film about Paris played on. We got high on posh residential SoHo stoops. We did it all. We pretended to be yuppies and sundays we would go "apartment hunting" on the Upper West Side. You Promised me you would buy me the penthouse, and we would make a lavish room for Muffy when she was born. The realtor was flabbergasted by our behavior. We laughed until exhaustion, our faces hurting from such trickery. Bonnie & Clyde, Sid & Nancy, You & I. Weeks went by without any word from you, still I never lost hope. I waited so impassively. I counted the days, hours, minutes, seconds, nanoseconds until you would return. Eventually you did. Things went sour. You became indifferent, told me you were in love with someone else. I became obsessed, hatching plans to keep you by my side. You tried to make it work. We had a few more momentous escapades. You looked me in the eye and said "Darling, I truly do love you. Let's run away and get hitched. And buy a summer home in The Hamptons. This filled me up with an unexplainable mirth. I never saw you again after that night. You disappeared into the valley of lost love and disappointment. I started a new nightly ritual of vicodin and merlot, while you were already jiving some new broad. I never came out of all this quite the same. I lost a lot and learned a lot more. There are times where I will think back to the way the sun beat down on your colorful skin, and once again I will be filled up again with that mirth. Then I realize you really never were mine, but I am overjoyed to know that at one time I had a piece of you. I smile because that is all I am left to do. If I had a message to send you, I would send it on a postcard. One with the Eiffel Tower in all it's glory and on the back it would simply say "She loves you no less."

Atrocity Exhibition

Mirrors unhinge me. I cannot bare to look at my paltry face and body no longer. Guilt and self loathing are a cocktail designed for calamity. I ask myself "How did I become this?" What exactly is "this" I have evolved into? abnormal, distraught, overwrought, compulsive, hysteric and neurotic. I am too scared to live, too scared to die. I spend a lot of time reminiscing about childhood jubilance. The days when summer was like a blanket of security. Brightening days and prompting smiles as if they were automatic. Bubbles blown into the humid air, sidewalk chalk staining scabs on knees. Juvenility is so deceitful. Why didn't anyone ever warn us about the disheartnement? Educate us that bubbles pop and sidewalk chalk washes away when torrential downpours set in? That self-mutilation exists? Rapists too? That life is not a bowl of cherries? That life is actually a plate of maggot infested meat? Cynicism becomes the word of the youth. Show me one truly happy person and ill show them wretchedness. All they would need to do is look at the inside and outside of my wasteful being. They would catch a glimpse of what it really is like to hate. Maybe one day i will carve MISANTHROPY in to my arm. A preface of who i am. And a warning not to even bother with me. Smile now optimists. Show your snickers, snorts and shit-eating grins. One day reality will set in and you too will become crestfallen. You too will soon partake in the atrocity exhibition called life.

I imagined that I could make it all lucid...

Wide eyed. Impossible to not explore this beatitude. Like a release of glitter at a parade. My heart skips and jumps to the beat of school children playing hopscotch. The world has turned a dull color, yet you and I are in technicolor. Leaving traces of our love in vibrant hues of magenta, fuchsia and crimson. This feeling can only be described as a lysergic acid doused sugarcube hitting my readied tongue. Feeling overwhelmed and dulled all at once. Candy colored kisses and diamond eyed provocations. Skin crawling just to be closer to yours. Ominous voices telling me "You Dear, are quite alive again". It is all bittersweet. I indulge in this escape. If this is what love is, then i proudly accept this invitation of intoxication.