WHORE.

Just when I thought I’ve created my boulder of idyllic potency; the angry gods propelled lightning to smash every bit of my precious stamina. The nub within my quintessence has reached the climax of sensational damage; that every inch of my mortality had been murdered in numerous macabre ways. I have been identified as a big shot of succulent character; celebrity of adulterous women; damsels advertising corporal lust in the streets. I am a portrayal of the devil on lease; the angel tied with the ropes of deceit. Everything that surrounds me is a replica of that woman who stares back at me in the mirror. She hates me as much as I hate her. She is a product of much liberty; I am product of futile love. How sad they sing the song to the gods to have mercy on stupid Pandora. The creation of hope is a lie. Nor love. Women like me, to the society; we are incapable of sensitivity. We know nothing but to give temporary panorama’s of a blissful infinity. Often times, I failed to abide the law of wintry. So many times I’ve gasped the suffocating air of a fanatical genuine; that thing they call love. But here I am, on the verge of sacrificing yet my whole makeup to a fresh face of naïve serenity; to one boy I met along the filthy streets. Is it wrong to ask for love; to beg for it; to long for it like a hungry child? This is imprudence! This is sordid! yet I am famished. I placed the cards on the table. Some aged belief to predict an upcoming misery. I hummed a tune of some old, old love song. The candle flickered on one corner. The blade went through and through. Macrobiotic obsession of despair inflicted on the membrane of my shell. I heard your voice in a sing song. I mutely cried. You have failed the sagacity of my now failing system. The scheme you have shrewdly planned; brought my ruin. Who are you to judge me of who I am; you don’t know anything. Because lovers are like that, momentary pleasure that’s what you get and that’s what WE offer.