Conversations with Myself (Canto II)

before it all got lost up in the mess he said not all men are bad and i am not like your dad | i will hold you even though you’re slightly mad | i am not a man who will ever break you | we had pennies in our pockets | we had hope in our eyes | he said girl you’ve got a million different faces | so why’d you put on that disguise | well you can take what you want | cause i’ve got nothing |

Sliding the brush out of the tube – a careful twisting, a slow, sure extraction – I swipe eyelashes, staring myself down.

Blink, blink.

“I know better.”

Mirrored peptalk, blood red mouth pursed, shining pearls biting bottom lip.

“Why’d I spend so much time dressing up in disguise?” flipping clothes off the bed, pressing silky shirt against soft belly, bare breasts. The shirt tossed aside for another and another. The perfect outfit: confidence, actualized.

A bobby pin spread wide, feet pushed apart, legs open, hair snug and slipped in, forced tightly. Wet hairspray.

Spritz, spritz.

“There’s masochism in making the same mistake over. The hurt, expected – no different than past experience: the pain a little deeper, a little harder, a little faster.”

Wincing, a zipper pulled taught across skin, leaving marks on the flesh. Slipping toes into shoes one size too small, a firm fit. Pointed heel digging into carpet, pressing.

“That pain, it felt good.” Fingers fondling the clasp, choking beads around white skin, pulling tight, pinching. Just enough.

Looking in the mirror, slender hands fingering beads.

“No.” A little more, please. Choking beads pulled tighter, a breath escaping parted painted lips, a quick gasp.

“I’m just fine on my own,” smoothing shirt over skin, touching clad legs, pressing away worry, welcoming trouble.

One last look in the mirror, a small smile, eyes sparkling. A laugh, breathy.

“I’m just fine on my own.”

Slammed door, clicking heels. Confidence: self actualized.

xoxo

M.L. H’art