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“Darling, all night/I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.” – Sylvia Plath, Fever 103°.

blkbrn:

Patrick Hoelck

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Every night during my visit to Penthouse’s, he set me a bedtime.

Somehow, I always managed to maneuver my way out of it.

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I am the queen of open invitations.

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After I’m played with, I go right to a mirror. I like to hunt for bruises, for burst capillaries, for scratches. I think certain kinds bruises look gorgeous, the way the color manifests itself on the skin. I’ve always thought hickeys looked like fireworks. I like the feeling of being marked and being in some way possessed through this.

I carry myself differently when I’m bruised. I usually make a concerted effort to cover them, but I still recognize they’re there. They make me hyperaware of my body. They make me feel gorgeous and unique. 

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Just take a few steps forward. Good. 

Now turn and look at me. Stop there. Very good.

No, no, I don’t need you to do anything else. Just stay like that, dear.

(PS: Brownie points for whoever can tell me who this total fox is.)