Song of Myself.

I guess I've realized that if no one else will celebrate me, I'll just have to celebrate myself. If no one sees something fit to worship, than at least I do. My ivory skin, the dark hair, the curve of my neck, rosebud lips, every cliche imaginable, I am all that. I am the girl for the ages, that which has always been worshipped, the smell of roses and coffee, the stride, the surreal gaze. The mind, oh the mind most of all! The way she lounges on the couch, so soft and small, her arms so right to be held, but how frightening it is to think to touch something so fragile, a little china doll. The look of dissatisfaction on her face, aloof from the world. The way her flimsy nighthings cradle her body, how soft and white she is. How lovely to look at, to touch her is to die. Her gaze reveals that she knows more than you could ever imagine. Fickle and cruel, an impudent child. Yet powerful and wise, sophisticated and shy. The curve of her breast, the way she pretends that you're not watching her. The silk against her thigh, the arch of her foot. It's enough to make you spout this drivel. The way she holds herself, you couldn't resist her if you tried. And she won't resist you either, unless you become a bore. . . she knows what she wants, and she'll never be happy with a half rate romance. She deserves the world and she knows it.