daisy chains

she's my baby (10)

Paris doesn't wanna be an actress like me.

She's got green eyes that reflect every judgement she makes, that smooth skin that only looks smoother in pictures, those endless legs that she spreads apart and wraps around you so tight you think you may just bite the dust there and then.

She's skinny and she eats little more than the olives picked by immigrants her daddy seems so keen on disregarding. White men with flushed necks and angry, frustrated veins that that pop against red skin while spit flies between their teeth.

If only he knew his little baby girl was keeping a girl like me in his hundred thousand penthouse right at the center of the city. A tremendous view from sparkling ceiling windows that can leave you breathless.

Sometimes she pushes open the glass doors with her boney arms and leans against the railings, sucking in the polluted air of the city as a cold breeze lifts up her hair.

It's like she's perpetually posing for a picture taken by some underground photographer whose name sounds too poetic to be real. Who takes her pictures in film and dips them into solutions under red lights while she clings to his arms as if awaiting a miraculous revelation. A woman, twisting her neck for a view of an ultrasound painting a pretty picture of her not yet born fetus.

The womb that held her together like careful washy tape breaks on the 9th month. Her mother buried before her daughter's first birthday. Dirt that clings yet to the corners of her baby girl's skin. Her eyes are the Earth before men replaced the meaning of that color with the meaning of capital.

She rejects all notions of this. She holds my hand and the picture is taken in her mind that girl and girl can and will coexist without man. In bed when she's not crying, or kissing between my quivering thighs, she reads Marx and broods over Weber.

Paris is the city of love and love she knows like the back of her hand. An acquired skill from birth. She knows how to spill roses into your arteries, and how to breathe wine into your lungs. May they both collapse in a heap of despair, may you never learn how to love again. For her long and white fingers are the picks, and your life is the strings to her favorite guitar. And she will play you like a doll. You will shine, and oh how you will moan under her fingers. How she will pluck and stroke. How she will whisper in your ear. How she will look you right in the eyes and tell you, baby, how beautiful you are when all there is left of you is a breathless shudder, and wet, wet sheets.

Then she will lick her fingers clean of you. She will set you aside and let you watch, as she strips for you. She is all bones and sharp edges. She is all bruises, and hollow sides. Her legs are endless and her mouth is French. She will straddle you and play you again. When she tires of you, be sure, that she will cast you aside.

In our bed, she lets me watch as she slips out of her loose clothes. She lets me watch as her fingers find her breasts, as her hair tips over her shoulders, as her mouth rounds, her teeth grip. I watch, with unwavering attention, how her fingers find the inside of her temple, as music escapes her parting lips. Her thighs spread and shake. She comes all over herself.

She is the Eiffel Tower, and baby, she lights up in the dark all right.