Silk sheets rolled under my dark ripe little thighs. I know just where your eyes go when you miss the taste of my honeysuckle. Stargazer lilies at the edges of my forest, as you wrap your big hands around them and pull. I buck up against your lanky body and sink my fire into your arms. I pull out, string out blood by tapping into the center of your sensitivity. You move with me, you move in me. When you touch me I know just what you’re talking about. Just what you’re saying to me, as I start to feel what it is to die. What it is to split into pieces, tear the flower petals so that blood may seep up and bubble from them. Slits like tentative murdering strokes with the sharp end of your knife. With the blunt end of your fingers. You pluck me and bring me up to your nose so that you may smell me. I know I smell like ground sex and dirt. Like the dirty and old leather you’ve been looking for in that smoky bar. You don’t quite know if I am Eve or Lilith. If I am death or innocence as you see me smile and pour a bucket of blood all over my naked body. Dripping in decay, I lay on the floor covered in it and my veil. White suits me best and worst, I am your bride until I burst.
I am too tired to sleep now, as you dip into me somehow. You’re snowing all over my petals and pushing me into losing air. I shake and thrash like a milk maid taking it in the ass and I wish you wouldn’t ask me how the health of my ass is doing. You thrash back and forth on top of me and realize that you’re making love to Aphrodite as she sinks into your frothing and clotted pool of blood. I want you to fuck me when you’re playing, turn that passion into something you can thrust into me. Something you can plant into me. When I see you up there you’re like magic and I want you in me and my body tingles with the sensation of a thousand pins being stuck in me. And I want you and I am a beggar. A fucking beggar. On my knees. Help me please. I don’t know what to do with how you look or act and I’d die for you if I can. I pray to you at night, a selfish little prayer to get me through the night. I clasp my hands together and arch my back in complete and utter religious fervor and I start to speak in tongues. I scream in tongues. I yell in tongues. I think you know what I am saying, because you’re the God of my idolatry.
Lorelei Childress is a Mexican/El Salvadorian artist who uses all sorts of mediums from digital art, photography, writing, poetry, to future art installation to tell a story about femininity and female suffering. She wants to comfort the disturbed and disturbed the comfortable. She is for all women but mostly for mentally ill women, women of color, and women who feel like outsiders or have been looked down on. Women who have been told they're too much or too little. Women who have been shamed for their sexuality, body, or gender identification. or anything else.
She is for women who are loud, aggressive, and hysterical. She makes art for women who are quiet, pushed down, and ignored. Lorelei Childress makes art for all women and for all women to feel a release and a catharsis from viewing her art. Her art mostly deals with subversion, abuse, intense personal insecurities, disturbing situations, interpersonal relationships, mental illness, human darkness, and female archetypes. If you want an interesting feminist or female narrative, you've come to the right place.