300 Days of Writing
Day 17 Vanity:
Her body was like the ocean, connected to the moon and vast. She loved to stroke it. Her scaly skin that shone in the dark, green-yellow, with hints of silver threaded throughout.
She loved its texture. In saltwater, it was slick and cool. In the sun, it was rough and coarse, the same as the sand. She was like a chameleon in that way, but instead of color, she could change in feel, in texture, in touch.
That ocean, that beast, this creature we speak of, she loved to touch the world. Her breath was the wind, a heavy gust that could power over mountains. It pushed the clouds away and melted the snow, feeding the trickling streams.
She loved to feed, to nourish. Her milk was sweeter than cream, and denser too. She would suckle it herself sometimes just to savor her own lusciousness.
And her voice, she found her voice as angelic as the heavens. She spoke incessantly, whispering salacious messages to her lovers, narrated tall tales to her children, and prayed to the Gods, offering her condolences that she was more lovable, more favorable, than they.
This woman—who was wide as the ocean with skin both soft and rough, with candied milk, powerful lungs, and a gorgeous song in her soul—lived with no fear. For what did she have to fear? She was everything she ever wanted. She was vanity, and narcissism, and pride combined, and she loved herself for it. Some called her arrogant, some called her smug, others called her egotistical, and to all these insults she nodded her head that was the glowing full moon. She believed she was everything. In her mind the more words they piled on, the insults they condemned her with, made her love herself more.
Yes. She had said. I am everything. I love myself for it. And so will you.
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
H