Cindy Crawford

by Mariano Vivanco
by Karl Lagerfeld
by Helmut Newton
by Helmut Newton
by Helmut Newton
by Helmut Newton
by Helmut Newton
by Helmut Newton
By Mikael Jansson
by Mikael Jansson
by Mikael Jansson
by Mikael Jansson
by Mikael Jansson
by Mikael Jansson
by Mikael Jansson

Malicious Deceit

They use the word LOVE so loosely, corrupting the meaning and tarnishing the radiance of its beauty. I despise their blasphemy, for they have never loved and will never. Their hearts are dark, manipulating emotions for power, sex and money. They are void of morality, cold, without empathy. They whisper lies that sound so sweet — their victims fall into a vicious trap of deceit. Oh, Lord, please help them see it. Heaven, before they are totally broken and the tears run, please help them see it. They prey on the vulnerable, the already victimized, and the heartbroken then intentionally hurt them again. They use the word LOVE as a potent weapon leaving lives in ruin and utter devastation. They will seek LOVE when destruction is upon them, but they will not find it. They will ask for mercy in their final hour of death, but there will be no absolution for their transgressions. In their elder years they will suffer, gaunt with the darkness that condemns them. Blindness will strike them, yet they will clearly see the faces and names of their endless victims. They will reach for the comfort of angels wings, but there will be nothing. Despair will overtake them, and for LOVE they will give every and anything, falling on their knees and praying, saying: Please love me, Please love me, Please love me, incessantly, over and over again in breathless whispering.

Promises

I will kiss you in your sleeping. I will comfort you in your weeping. I will hold you in your dreaming. I will whisper the secrets of my soul to you in my speaking. I will always love you, not for your beauty or for sentiments of duty; I love you for just being. We embark on a new beginning — a beautiful union without ending. Now, with love in our eyes, let us consecrate the vows of our hearts at our wedding before mortal witnesses and the immortal in heaven.

Slut

The constant object of men’s desire, her rejection of them brings their ire upon her. They fuck their wives and mistresses while fantasizing about her. Her lips, breasts, ass and hips entice their most carnal secrets. They become slaves to their cravings. Men stroke themselves to intense pleasure under warm water visualizing themselves fucking her. They are secretly obsessed even when they are with their significant others. Some would even offer significant sums of money to have her. In their failed attempts they call her Slut, in vitriolic anger. In stark hypocrisy they whisper to themselves that they love her; they would gladly fall on their knees to suck her cream colored pedicured toes and drink her bathwater. They’re soulless and emotionally inept; their offers do not move her. She has been with powerful men before, so men’s display of wealth is minimal and unimpressive in her eyes. They are not knowledgeable enough to know that she wants a man who can reach the depths of her soul and in genuine friendship allow love to grow in time.

Yes, she is deeply sexual and sensual, but she will give herself only to a man who truly loves her. The secret of her deepest pain is that she was violated in the worst way by her own father. In their discovery of her, they will discover the deep trauma she’s endured. But knowing they cannot have her, they whisper: Slut, Whore. Envious women call her, Jezebel and condemn her to hell. She is naturally beautiful and feminine needing no pretentious disguise. She has the most beautiful eyes. Men jeer with sexual gestures — they stare, and call her Slut as she walks by.

Storm of Tears

Perpetual dark rain masks the tears of my unending pain; there is no distinction when tears fall in a storm. Incessant sorrow is the numbness of my soul. I used to crave warmth, but I have adapted to bitter cold. I am shattered over and over again; the dams of my eyes fill with the tears of my heart. I am silent and still in my weeping before the bellowing of my anguish starts. I seek understanding no more, nor do I reach for love in its purest form. Life will be what it will be. I am a castaway, shipwrecked on unmerciful seas. I did not know that I was so deeply wounded until I saw my own blood on the leaves. The tightness of the chest and shortness of breath feels like slow imminent death. There is no fucking redemption in constant torment. If hell is my portion then in hell I will walk. I do not give a fuck about societal norms or their prejudice thoughts. The decadence of their sentiments have bloated them — they are greedy pigs with foul breath at the trough. The weight of their iniquities have crush their knees; on their bellies they crawl. Still, in unending storms tears fall. To protect myself from further pain, around my heart I build an impenetrable wall. In the dystopia of my soul I am stranded, left desolate. The beauty of past intimacy seems like a lifetime away. After early morning sensuality, from work, she would call to tell me that she was still throbbing, further inciting my intimate passion. Regretfully, I never showed her the sorrowful depths of me, afraid to show the vastness of my pain. Sorrow is now synonymous with my name — my unseen tears washed away by dark eternal rain.