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 a million just like her, yet she clings to the belief that she’s one of a kind. All her life, she’s been a mess of self-obsession and glamour. From high school to nightclubs, dancing as watchful eyes strip her bare. How many fantasies has she been in? How many minds have annihilated 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, and make the dirty girl clean. Pouting, all anorexic and plastic, all false and nauseous. The epitome of lust, 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 her religion. Lost in its nightmare, she bathes in its neon sickness. It makes her flesh glow, but it reeks of prostitution, of seedy handjobs and drunken liaisons in the backseats 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, hidden tears of a worthless girl.

Her navel opaque, her breasts relics of what her mother once was. Nude and distorted, her body full of insects. From her ankles to her hips, it’s a landscape of emptiness, a barren desert home to the river Styx. Her sex is obsolete; dry and fragile like a dead flower crumbling to pieces on floral bedsheets. Sensuality is obliterated. All levels of being vacant, 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 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. Guts on show, she feeds on the lifeblood she so desperately lacks. Plucking out your ribs, she devours secrets so thirsty for more. Like a vampire. Like a parasite. A gross waste of someone once true. The evil of pampered reflection, receding dignity and slashed wrists. If you could see inside of her, there would be nothing worth seeing. An abyss of massive proportions, ready to swallow you up. A painted shadow, an abstraction of what was once real.

14 replies »

  1. I love how you give such deep feeling to your female characters. As a female, with a bit of life behind her, I find the connections very compelling. I believe you take great care with each and every one, even in the most horrific circumstances.
    Again, thank you for such exhilarating work.

    • I really appreciate that comment, thank you. To be honest, I’ve always identified more with women than I have done with men. I’m quite a sensitive guy, and have always preferred the company of the opposite sex. Maybe that’s why I write like I do. I tend to find that men are quite boring, whereas women offer no end of intrigue, not to mention intelligence.

  2. Hi Journal of a Lonely Plague Lover,
    I read your article. I was trying to see if I could detect a theme. This is what I came up with:
    The girl is too think (her ribs…), and you don’t think that’s glamorous, and she just doesn’t get it. Am I close at all?
    Thanks for visiting my site just now. I’m glad you liked my post about making money blogging. It has been great seeing you again. I got to try and analyze your essay!
    Janice

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