what to wear when…hotelsongs. she consumes with violent voracity, shredding the world around her to reconstruct it in a more symmetrical, entertaining image. she cleaves her own story apart until words dribble to the floor like blood and letters lap at her stilettos. exhausted, exhilarated, she drags the back of her hand across her face, smearing lipstick obscenely, her cherry red mouth flicking open like a pocketknife, flashing sharp teeth and a lupine smirk. her ventricles pump mercury and irreverence simmers and snarls in her throat. shields up, top tugged down: she is ever a performer, a meta-spitting machine, all theatricality and pulp and excruciatingly controlled carelessness. she is a portable storm, a subversive ode to harlotry and hedonism, to pride, to power, to wine and lilting syllables, to femme fatales and functional duplicity. this sly-eyed devotchka’s will is a hydra, infinite and replenishable and able to rip even heroes in two (requested by an anon, along with gerutha).
post 140 of an infinity-part series