The Lost Identity

Something is missing on her face...

As if she will have no face when she removes the make-up... Water will not purify it anymore, will erase it instead. Her face is like porcelain. She will never go red; never feel embarrassed because it has been a long time since she lost her respect.

She lost her feminine voice, delicate smile, her womanly smell which is hidden behind Burberry’s. When I look at her claws, I hardly ever can see her natural pinkness of her nails which are dying under the nail extension.

Oh is it her hair that I caress or an e-bay user’s who sold it to her for ten pieces of fiver last night?

She has a top not a skirt anymore, with hills having no contact with the dance floor.

And her eyes... These eyes can see but can not look at you. They have the deepest look like a fire without a single real flame, freezing effect with no hail because she lost the soul inside her eyes...

All she need is looking and being sexy to as many as possible.

She is looking for something inside bottles of beer, glasses of wine, in bedrooms and under blankets...

She is looking for her identity which she lost ages ago.

“Women used to have time to make pies and had to fake orgasms. Now they can manage orgasms, but they have to fake the pies.

And they call this progress”... a progress without an identity.