i eat boys like a cannibal for wearing nine inch heels and stepping all over the face of the patriarchy, for fucking a man before you kill him, for wearing blood red lipstick to match the blood on your hands, for killing your boyfriend, for devouring boys and celebrating misandryi. BAD GIRLS (BARBARIC MERITS CHAINBANGIN REMIX) - m.i.a. /// ii. FUCK MORE (FT. LAUREN ROCKET) - junkie xl /// iii. BREAK YOU HARD - natalia kills /// iv. BLACK SHEEP - gin wigmore /// v. CANNIBAL - ke$ha /// vi. HIT AND RUN - lana del rey /// vii. RABBIT HOLE - natalia kills /// viii. HEART KILLER - gossling /// ix. KILL OF THE NIGHT - gin wigmore /// x. FUCK U BETTA (CHUCKIE CLUB REMIX) - neon hitch /// xi. MAN DOWN - rihanna /// xii. KILLER QUEEN - queen /// xiii. SKINNY GENES (ACID WASHED’S MESMERISING REMIX) - eliza doolittle /// xiv. I CUT LIKE A BUFFALO - the dead weather /// xv. HEADS WILL ROLL - yeah yeah yeahs /// xvi. BURIED ALIVE (FT. DR. OCTAGON) - yeah yeah yeahs /// xvii. OUT WITH A BANG - lana del rey
Jessica Chastain in “Work of Art” photographed by Annie Leibovitz for Vogue USA December 2013Frederic Leighton’s Flaming June, Henri Matisse’s Odalisque with Red Culottes, Félix Vallotton’s Le Retour, Anders Zorn’s Frances Folsom Cleveland, Gustav Klimt’s Ria Munk, Vincent van Gogh’s La Mousmé, René Magritte’s La Robe du Soir, Julia Margaret Cameron’s photography.
Your absence at first is painful. I somehow manage to anesthetize it. By the time it starts to dull my pang, you show up. You pluck out the morphine injection. I go back to the starting point. I ache again.
I oscillate between yearning and hatred for you. There is no middle ground. It is driving me to insanity.
What happened last night seems so distant and surrealistic. I don’t think I am quite ready to process everything that happened. Although I value his candour, he ripped my heart apart like shreds. I just felt like “squashed cabbage leaves” as Eliza Doolittle in Pygmalion: a Romance in Five Acts put it. It is still difficult to fully take in what happened that I cannot use my own words to put how I felt and how I feel. Right now, all I want is to have my own space, be alone, drink a little, and cry. Cry for a spell and perhaps that would make me feel better. I just want to drench myself in Winehouse’s music and wine. Chocolate doesn’t make me feel any better—I’ve already tried it to no avail. It does make my heart race faster. But all I can think of is listening to his heart beating underneath his light blue shirt. That’s all I want. I don’t need any words. I don’t even want an orgasm. I can give it myself. But his heartbeat. That’s something only he can give. Irreplaceable.
I wish love doesn’t hurt but it always has been so for me.
I don’t want devastating and painful love. But I do want life-changing and extraordinary love.