Julia (muse series #2)

she looks soft to touch, so thin, fragile bones pushing against the skin; she seems likely to break if held the wrong way or if, somehow, manhandled (but she won’t).

she is wrapped in cloth in the cold air of the night; she sits there, buried in a soft scarf, and against the freezing breeze she unwraps, unveils and undiscloses. her cheeks are blushed from the surrounding cold, her full lips, plump, are squeezed in a thin line.  she moistens them, the tip of the tongue sticking out – lips open and lips, immediately, close. she is hiding that sphinx smile; she is drowning down a secret she can’t let out. the sphinx must have it on the inside in order to just be (what she is). a whole atmosphere of mystery surrounds her, hanging from her eyelashes. she looks at me with eagle eyes.

a bird of prey, she is – sharp edges all over, sharp feathers underneath layers and layers of flimsy white cotton. the sharp angles of her face, the sharp straightness of her back (her smile is soft, though). she is all edges and angles, squares and lines; yet, she holds in her a delicate beauty, a smoothness in her features over such a well-defined jaw.

she stops to wonder behind a screen of smoke, a long white cigarette firmly held by long white fingers, the tipping point being her long, sharp nails clad in fierce red nail polish. the dry air surrounding her crackles at every inhale, and silences up as she exhales. and she punctures the air in bold thrusts – ashes in the wind – in between every sentence, the smoked-up words finally appearing. her voice is high-pitched, sharp to the ears. she speaks, but her mysteries just won’t show. she won’t let them. she teases and flirts with the phrases, metaphors, metonymies that she will never let break through.

she satisfies in denying me the pieces and peace of her mind. she delights in struggling for control, she wishes to give and take over, to dispose and keep hold of. the relations of power is what really matters. it is not a question of possession or desire – the secret lies in the quest, in the hunt. it pleases her to hide and run in the sharp turns of fate and, therefore, in the puns and plays of words, making me force the words out of her mouth. she smiles a titillating smile, pleased with herself, once she notices I’m running in circles.

or so, maybe only so, this is how she likes to believe that it happens. because maybe, only maybe, subconsciously, underneath the sharp, hard armor, behind all those layers of cloth, her mystery is fragile and shredded and she is, in the end, – maybe,  just maybe – being a shy child.//

(the muse has, for so long, constructed herself to a mold of her liking. it was a laborious, strenuous work, requiring time and will. so now, after all the herculean effort, she projects herself so sharp and complex… but, behind all the short-ends, stalemates and chain mail – behind her metaphorical feathers – one paying a little more focused attention can easily perceive just how soft and sweet are the threads of her being)//

(-Julia)
END
STOP

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