Painted

Painted like the Whore of Babylon, I know what you think of me. I'm false because I don't look right, I seem to revel in startling you or making you uncomfortable. To a point, you're true. I hate your idea of what I should be. I hate your idea of how I should act and see and feel and know and want. What would you do if I told you, what I wanted most right now was to take the pins to my arms again like I used to, something you never knew about because you never noticed. Little red lines, seeping just enough blood to show I still had a beating heart, stinging and hissing in my skin as I raked the tiny needles over and over. The scars are so faint, so pure now. Thin white seams along my already pale flesh. I am inked and pierced to adorn my temple, sex goddess on some days and dark queen on others. It all seems to ridiculous to me sometimes, how I can be a fucking woman and hate all that it means at the same time. I hate being weaker, I hate being scared, I hate being alone and I hate it more because you made me that way. I am painted like some fairy tale ogre, hiding my skin, my eyes, my lips...

Do you know what it feels like to me when I kiss? What skin tastes like to my tongue, the salty tang of sweat rising with pulsing desire, slowly building because my kisses always seem to make people reluctant, take them off guard. Do you know what it feels like to me to fun my fingers across bare skin? To feel heat and need and tension and wanting and know that it is magnified in me? To know that I need this more than you or they will ever, ever understand? I am hiding behind this facade for you, to make it easier for you. Your existence is eased by the idea that I've never parted my thighs for anyone, never been filled and never cried out at the sher painful pleasure of ll. ll. Laid submissive and cried to myself because that wasn't what I wanted, I just wanted to feel alive and needed and this was the only way it was going to happen. It's easier for you to think that I have never felt powerful, making someone feel grow and collapse, all because of what I was doing to them. If I am painted and false, I have never existed solely for one person and they for me, even for a short time, a short time where all we could feel was each other and all we wanted was to make ourselves hoarse and raw from fucking and wanting, the sweet desperation of grabbing, clinging, uncertainty and lustful knowledge that, no matter how well learned, always seems new when you are with them.

I am painted to you and that's all you can understand. I am sweet and simple and shy. I am quiet and strange and sometimes scary. Inside me is a boiling cauldron of things you will never understand about me, my hopes and dreams and fears and the things that crawl through my soul so painfully that I hope to die from the pain sometimes. Inside me is pure happiness until I see how you look at me, then it dies a little and I am painted again.