A work of prose: (from times when I think that I’m Lana Del Rey)
I’m lying on a bench burning in the sun, eating papayas at the lip of the ocean. I wake up with only one aim, emotional violence.
The love bites on my inner thighs are all that I have left of him now- and even those are fading. I’m sitting here staring at the wilting incarnadine roses he gave me and wondering if they will be the last ones. The roses reek, they’re blushing a strange shade of black. Is this symbolic or should I just give up and throw them away?
Am I wasting my youth? I feel like I’m wasting my potential and by that I mean beauty. I used to have two weekly routines: cutting the stems off the roses he gave me and watering my palm tree while I stare at the church steeple buried between the fauna on my windowsill.
My mother told me I should just accept defeat, leave him, take him for all he’s worth and go to my stalker’s country house. She’ll buy me a taser. Or sleeping pills. He can wake up in three days with no recollection of anything.
What happened between us is his prerogative. I told him to please refrain from touching my golden soul with his dirty hands, thanks. But he couldn’t resist. Why did I stick around? Sometimes you feel more sensual when you’re in pain, I suppose. You feel the pull of doing something naughty- but legal.
He told me it was just a sip of codeine. And three xannies. Ok, also a pill. He had to take coke for his all-nighter apparently, just not off my ass this time- that was the problem.
If you haven’t guessed already, mature themes is part of my brand.
He was trying to be daddy but he didn’t succeed. He didn’t call me baby- he called me Lolita. But deep down he was nothing more than a dirty philistine. I couldn’t be with someone who doesn’t have an artistic side- I just don’t think I’d respect them.
Now my life is so sweet that my stalker is funding my lavish lifestyle. Disconcerting as it is, like a game of hide and seek, sometimes it’s nice to be chased. You feel the danger but you know you’re safe. As safe as I can be. When it comes down to it, you know I’ll give you nothing, you’ll give me everything. And only then will I consider giving you something.
Do you remember when I wanted to be a nun? Partly it was for the financial stability, having somewhere to live. To be frank, I’d do it all for the promise of a family tiara.
When making decisions, I usually choose the sensible one- and usually regret it. But I’ve been disappointed too many times now to let dissatisfaction become a habit. What a waste of devotion…
The summer air is now laced with autumn breezes. We pass slowly towards December, the oasis of the year. I had a really weird dream last night; it’s probably because I’m reading Lolita again.
I want an animal to be my symbol- at first I thought, ‘maybe a flower’, but then I thought: snails. (There’s a deeper meaning- it’s a Frida Kahlo painting.)
I live like a glamorous Caucasian woman and dress like I have no worries. Pearl earrings (small enough to look real) and lipstick in shades of cream.
Personally, I think girls next door need to die; they’re like vanilla ice cream before they add the vanilla. Truly, they deserve our mercy. And the casual look isn’t just last season. It’s last century. Decadence is more convenient.
I feel like a centrefold sinner. I love being a woman. We can walk down the street and cause destruction. Like Helen of Troy, our bodies are magnets, our faces Madonnas. And when we taste remnants of each others lips on the bottle of rosé we pass around under willow trees and in circles…we become a bed of angels.
You can expose me in all this, but make sure to give me credit.
What happens next? That’s tomorrow’s problem, just dance.
Maya (with comments from Ada)
Images sourced from Instagram.