Maybe there is beauty in walking away...

Claws and Curls

The red oak wood burns deep with the smell of lavender and peppermint essential oils. It is here that she does most of her dirty work. Lacey thongs are strewn about, and lipstick in every shade of red. Beneath her mirror, an arsenal of expensive makeup lay open. As the sun retreats from the moon, she drops her purse on the floor next to her heels and makes her way toward her fortress room. Cloaked in soft black silk, she lays her cheek down on the crimson sheets covered in bloodstains.

That dark, devious feeling returns to her. A goddess of passion does not sleep alone. Every goddess has something to feen on. With the same certainty that the moon will rise, her intuition will run wild on the trail of prey. She knows exactly what she wants and how to get it.

Once she lures him in, she will give him a few weeks. She tells him exactly what he wants to hear, and secretly wishes it were real. He will get comfortable will her, and become vulnerable in her caress. And just when he thinks he’s got control, she will snare him in the trap she’s carefully laid. Her perfectly manicured claws will clasp his heart, and squeeze until blood pours warm over the top. With every breath she sinks her claws deeper, daring him to try and escape her grasp. The more he moves, the more she feeds. Eventually, she quietly and sweetly severs his membrane at the jugular. She loves a challenge, when he can no longer move to excite her; she gets bored and hunts on. A trap laid so many times that it is thoughtfully done by her subconscious.

With only 21 years, a dark temptress, stronger than ever, can seduce a man whenever she pleases, even at a stoplight or a grocery store. From behind her eyelashes she seizes their energy and holds onto their being for just a quarter second – that is all she needs. The eyes of men fasten to her like magnets.

Have you ever brought a full-grown man to his knees? I am all of 125 pounds, and a man of even 220 cannot match me. How many hearts have you stolen, broken, or crippled? For me, the number exceeds what I can soberly recall.

Broken beyond repair, I guess to be fair, is really somewhere around four. Four lives. Four lives scarred by the letters in my name forever. Wine colored, cursive flowing letters engraved deep on the tenderest part of his being. Provoking other hearts, mine stays safe beneath the cage of my chest. At some point my heart stopped getting attached, and breaking heart became second nature, almost by default. Numbness like thick fog set in, and all feelings left.

Women are supposed to be nurturing beings. When heart broken they grieve for a long time, but by nature, they heal. Women are emotional, used to feeling deeply the highs and lows of all things painful they recover more fully. They learn to share experiences and grow with a soft warm heart. But men, made of cold steel, don’t bounce back quite so easily. Once heartbroken, their minds become thwarted and tangled. They lack that delicate tender nature that aids women with heartbreak. They will forever ache at the sound of her name, and lose a little piece of their identity to her.

She wakes a softer, sweeter goddess; one that thrives on strong morals and good deeds. One that is grateful and thoughtful. A being that lives off the happiness of others. As morning sun sparkles through the window onto her face, she sips her honeyed coffee. She would never hurt anyone, never intentionally. The night before, like a dream, washes away with the hot water that runs over her body. Roused, she is organized and motivated and ready to take on the world.

As the day goes on, little clips of daydream slide through her mind, memories from the night before. She forcefully pushes them away and becomes sick thinking about what she did and what others will think. The shame from others would be too much for her gentle soul. Who was that woman in the dark that acted in such recklessness? Like the braid in her hair, the two goddesses weave in and out of each other – a battle never-ending.

From a top a cliff her aura shines red, and her turbulent energy vibrates off the male species. She stares over the land and secretly retreats to a hidden space, all her own, guarded by her ribs. It is a special place that no one can enter. A place lined with hard, black bulletproof walls. Men seek to break her physical barrier, and may succeed, but her hidden fortress can not be penetrated. The golden gates of her inner barrier are guarded day and night by ferocious white lions that will stop at nothing to track you down and drag you back through hardened lava, away from her heart before you reach it.

While the sun is up, she wonders why she can’t feel pain. The pain these men feel. She can see the pain in their eyes when they are on their knees crying, begging. She looks upon them in a emotionless, sedated state. Seasons pass with the same man. After warm nights turn cold, she cannot shed a single tear. In the end, she has no answers for him. No emotional response to draw from. Men are left in the dark, where they found her. The light from the moon was deceiving when they first saw her shining face.

Her nightmares resurface. In eternal sorrow, she weeps for the men that can not forgive her. There are nightmares filled with guilt, for not feeling guilty. She does not mean to ravage hearts. Challenged in the beginning to win over his heart, she succeeds. But in the end, when she finally has him where she thought she wanted him, she no longer wants him. He was perfect, why doesn’t she want him? Why doesn’t he understand? Her heart yearns for the chase, the carnal instinct that burns inside her. Domesticity was never in her cards, but she wishes it were.

Culturally, men are the ones who can take and break hearts, sow seed, and play the game. By gentle custom, women have become better at dealing with heartbreak as they are more often heartbroken. If a man becomes wrapped up in a woman’s nurturing nature, and chemically binds himself to her soul, the pain he feel as she rips away from him is excruciating.

Like a soulful hymn, her sweeter side calls on her, begs her to change. No one should be tortured in such a way. Two wrongs don’t make a right. All men should not be punished for the acts of one. The one whom she allowed to pass the walls of her heart before. She knows her dark side has the power to exploit the male species. Just because she harnesses that power does not give her the right to use it. As soon as she starts walking away from her wicked ways, her alluring temptress grabs her by the hair and rips her back down.

She is me. From my knees, I look up and wait for an answer.

“Inside of me there are two dogs. One is good and one is evil, and they fight all the time. When asked which one wins, I answer the one I feed most,”

Sitting Bull

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