You're out of Xanax. You’re also out of moves.
You might still be sashaying like a black swan floating across a perfectly transparent lake, one peek beneath the surface though and it’s anything but exotic.
You’re all legs, furiously flapping and twisting.
Just like your mind as it grapples with the unraveling web of hypocrisy and exquisite manipulation that, my darling femme fatale, we both know takes the execution of a skilled assassin.
The game’s up, Mrs Smith.
The cracks in your relationship are bigger than the San Andreas fault and you internally twisted beyond recognition, sick in the guts of living as your second self.
Your cool exterior belies your frantic heart, as it beats out your chest like a drug dealer flushing his coke stash down the toilet to the sound of sirens.
Speaking of toilets, your relationship’s fast disappearing down one, as you desperately try to unscramble the mental and emotional anguish ripping through your sanity like a jackhammer through concrete.
And you feel physically sick at the thought of what you stand to lose.
Your security blanket’s about to be ripped from you, leaving you naked, vulnerable, exposed and alone.
Ooh and that’s your kryptonite.
And what would “they” say?
You’re stuck in your own web of deceit, drowning in the quicksand of lies and false confidence. And the source of your pain towering over you, like a size 12 shoe one inch from your head about to bring itself down and knock you the fuck under.
And no matter how many times your Manolo Blahniks have stepped over the vacuous threshold of your therapists office, you have not once heard what you need.
And you won’t.
No, no dear Queen, it’s going to take a unique meld of exquisitely twisted witchery to save you from the fate you know is about to darken your door.
You need a solution for the apparently unsolvable.
And it’s lucky for you.
I know happen to know the solve to every scenario, including yours.
Because I know you and your duplicitous nature. I also know your deep, delectable misunderstood, dark heart.
And once we’re done, the only twisting going on will be the plot twist of you getting back what right now looks to be so desperately lost.
Regaining not just your composure, but something so valuable to you that you’d torch your entire Chanel collection just for a mere glimpse.
Your pain summoned me. And I’m here.
I'm here for you exquisitely beautiful dark one, reach out, make your move.