That Ghost Just Isn’t Holy Anymore

She poses like a star, but she doesn’t shine brightly. Her flame went out long ago, extinguished by the adult world. There’s millions just like her, yet she clings to the belief that she’s unique. All her life, she’s been a mess of self obsession and glamour. From highschool to nightclubs, dancing as the watchful eyes devour her. How many fantasies has she been in? How many minds have undressed her in the throes of climax? It makes her feel special, but it’s nothing to feel special about. They think she’s an icon of desire, but the carcass of what she is, is infinitely less adorable. They should scrub her skin with bleach, make the dirty girl clean. Pouting she is, all anorexic and plastic, all false and nauseous. The epitome of beauty, of Art-School pretension. Doe-eyed and exotic, she promises the sublime, but that ghost just isn’t holy anymore. She’s a fashionable thing. London is her passion. She loses herself in its nightmare, in its neon sickness. Bathing herself in dirty water, she drinks in the waste of horrors that run beneath its streets. It makes her flesh glow, but it reeks of prostitution, of seedy handjobs and drunken liaisons in the back-seats of cars. Her body all tanned and porcelain, it attracts flies as if it were rotten meat. The beads of sweat that trickle down her flesh, collecting in jars. It tickles your insides to think of what she is. It hardens you when she opens herself up, like a flower facing the sun. The bees pollinate her, they worship what she offers, but not what she is. You know she’s false. She shed her soul long ago, but you can’t help yourself. She’s poisonous, exuding fumes that make you wretch. Her navel is opaque, her breasts relics of what her mother once was. She’s a spider, her limbs piercing dreams and wrapping themselves around childhood innocence. Pricing herself to the highest bidder, she lays herself bare, ready for grabbing hands to do as they wish. Nude and thin, her body is full of insects, scuttling around waiting to be fed. From her ankles to her hips, it’s a landscape of emptiness, a barren desert with dried up river beds. There are no oceans, no rivers that flow from her womb. Her sex is obsolete, dry and fragile like a dead flower. Crumbling to pieces on floral bedsheets. In its place, the cheapness of magazines and perfume. Sensuality is obliterated, nailed to a cross and set on fire. All levels of her being are vacant. She is a replica, a forgery of beauty. In a drunken daze, you grab hold of her wanting to destroy everything she stands for. There’s no lust, it has no meaning, you’re just a slave to instinct. Her teeth are gravestones and her a tongue a monument to terrible catwalks. Eyelashes like daggers, stabbing into your side, slowly cutting you open as she goes down on you. Guts on show, she feeds greedily, consuming the lifeblood she so desperately lacks. Plucking out your ribs, she drinks the secrets of your heart and licks the blood that pours from your chest. Like a vampire. Like a parasite. Feeding on all who come her way. Human and useless, a vulgar waste of something once true. The evil of pampered reflection, receding dignity and slashed wrists. If you could see inside of her, there would be nothing to see. An abyss of massive proportions, ready to swallow you up. A painted shadow, an abstraction of what was once real.

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