I get called names. Yet I am not what they say. Not in my heart. I am not a whore. Or a slapper. Or a slag... A lover. I like that word. Lover. It is red, juicy and passionate. I am a lover yet I do not know if I have loved, if I have ever really loved anyone. I get called names: Flower, My Dear, Treasure and Sweetheart. B. Cheat. Bitch. Witch.
My name is Carly. I am a lover. I will be your whore. Please you, tease you on my tongue. Take you deep into my mouth, swallow you. Choking on your pleasure. I please you so that you will not leave me. Do not leave me. Please. Leave me.
So, you have met her, have you? Carly. There is something wrong. Leave her alone. He leaves her. Whoever that he may be. Well, she pushes him away. She falls in love and hates in equal extremes. Frequently, intensely and there is no in between. Her concept of love may appear shallow, unripe yet her feelings are true, if a little raw. Her emotions are like the elements. Like fire and storms. She always falls in love, her version of love. It is always unexpected, at the wrong moments, usually with the wrong people. Always she is hurt. Is weak. Is mistreated. There are always tears, hanging up the phone, childish sulks and insults. She falls to her knees to beg forgiveness. Turn away now, you know what Carly is doing.
She likes the word 'Lover'. It is dramatic, transcendent.....
Then always she makes a vow. Carly vows that she will never have another. Never. She will never have another lover. She is less mad when alone and highly independent. Yet brief moments of calm are merely a lapse, a rare lull within the tempest. Calm, oh, that brief cool smouldering before the cavorting, the leaping of bright, new flame. Her volatile nature blustering, reeling within the turbulence of a new enticing coupling as she falls in love again, out of control again, too soon to ever heal. How can this be love, though? She is young, seeking excitement, kicks. It cannot be love. Yet she wants so much to be loved.
Something is wrong. I know and you know that something is wrong. Why does she turn mad when they tell her they love her? Why does she almost spit this love back at them? Why does she not believe them? Why can she never really trust them? Something is wrong. Deep down. There is a place somewhere beyond the fire, the flames. I will take you there. There, when Carly is alone in bed. When she can hear the night rustling, rattling against her window. Realisations rustle beneath her consciousness like leaves in the darkness. Shadows, secrets. Something is wrong. She knows she is pretty. People are always telling her so. Why does she feel unlovable, so unworthy of love? Deep down. Somehow isolated. Different.
The doll's eyes flick shut. It has a fringe cut way too short that will never grow back. The eyes flick open with a sticky sound. The doll's body is soft, pink and white swirly material. He is standing above her. Raising his hand. Always, a hand poised ready to snuff out her flame. Blue eyes that are hateful. Carly does not know why he is angry. Why did she never feel loved by him?
Shadows, tensions. Realisations beneath consciousness weave their way up, out. Tangled, growing, worming a path.
Something wrong. Just games. A little girl, laughing, laughing, catching a gulp of air. Laughing. Legs pulled up. Apart. Laughing, laughing. Something wrong. Tensions. Realisations. Stop. Stop. The eyes flick shut.
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