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My boudoir is all madness and roses. Cake and thorns, sweet and sharp. In dim hushed breezes disjointed poetry makes limbs lush and heavy. Long hot baths rinse away yesterdays promise in the soft, scented froth of todays reality. This is retreat, and with no reflection of myself in mirrors that reflect one another in triangular perplexity. Those softly hazed surfaces show what has happened, what is dreamed, what may with time come to be. My sanctity is too violent for pink. It screams in the night and won't let me sleep. Brushes my face with the demanding caress of lovers gone and demands utter attention. Complete contrition. Promises of slippery sighs and long aching release. Distracts me from the safe and sober contemplation of the white wonder bread day to day necessity of sanity. Whispers from the walls of those that know better, the ones that can tell you that love persists in light of what I do. Feline green blinks softly as awakening drifts toward wanton fantasy.
We're all crazy. Mad with lust, and power and fear that whispers in our ears as we cower in the places we deem safe and deny. Deny everything! Psycho is as psycho does and I lay in soft sheets powder perfumed and my phone chimes at me. All out of our minds, toys in the attic, lunacy. Invitation to insanity... Please RSVP.
