Blue Porcelain Eyes.

Blue porcelain....

...Eyes? Holes. Leading into a well of strangeness, of foreign languages, of bizarre causes.

Soft skin, pink, freckled. speckled. Faded ink tattoos linger under the surface, purchased in drunkenness, meaning forgotten.

Hair. Short, the colour of a cat. A cat that lives in holes and gutters, covered in scratches, a veteran, who knows what it is the be dirty after a day of dodging speeding cars and fighting other felines for his world. A ginger cat.

Lips. Thin. Barely a deeper pink than the surrounding skin. Warm as a touch of fever, the taste of a rich loverly cut. Deep in your arm, delicious and painful as it is intoxicating.

Small breasts, White with veins in them, like a blue cheese.

Fingers like transparent spiders legs, ended in red painted nails.

A smile that could stop a revolution.

Slim, Small, Strong, The sent of burning estrogen hangs around her. Sweat and hatred in her embrace.

I've known her. Or have I?

The essence of an artist is deception.