She trace her fingers along the sheer delicate cloth that has been chosen exquisitely to embrace her sensuous body. Boxes of partially eaten chocolates are strewn about everywhere, discarded in graceless trivial mess. Flowers that's failed to impress her are crushed, some joining in beds of ashes the discarded invitations of petty men in their foolish trance of admiration.
She goes about painting the beautiful lie on her face with nonchalant charm that exudes both confidence and grace, arresting and deadly. She bats her thick eyelashes in a flirty flutter of sun-kissed fringe and cocks her head sideways, watching her reflection in the mirror. She flashes a cold reticent smile and contentment settles on her face. Her eyes, a ravishing film of loneliness and pride.
Every sway of hip can arrest the very committed of hearts and she does it in blatant arrogance. Her heels crush and pierce every dense and wayward heart that dares an ambition to stand before the presence of her ruthless charm. She bathes and relish in every kill, vainly quenching an embittered raging wreck.
She is the very epitome of desire and every ideals. The generous lips bleeding a promise of unbridled lust, hungry and consuming. A touch of her breath can send a fully composed man to frenzied appetite for carnal bliss.
She is ahead of every game and she treads on superficial nonsense people call dreams being thrown at her feet. What need has she for such mediocre things? She cares not for religious admiration and passionate abandon of declaration of
love for her. The other girls are no competition. She knows she rules and her subjects are as blind as they are severely foolish.
She doesn't need the allegiance of a thousand valiant knights nor the wooing tongues from veneering poets. Their praises all fall on deaf ears and their useless shining beauties are all rendered bleak and ashen. Not worthy of a moment's notice. Not deserving a fraction of a sigh.
The world is her parade and she is all alone. She win hearts and blind devotions but comes home to a choking barren house. Her bloody lipstick stains the hands that cradles the muddy over-flowing eyes. When the world is shut and she is left
alone in the confines of her stark reality, no dazzling dress can be too sensuous enough to cover the bruises of a dying heart.
Alone, she rids herself of every superficial facade and slips inside a shirt too big for her and crumbles down to a pool of pillows that still smell of him.
*picture NOT mine.
