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| October It's been cold since mid October, since the last exchange I shared with the only one for whom I truly cared; in the silence, in the stillest hum of a text-laden eve, while glass-like vows were thrown like toys but always caught by soft, warm, cushions of red... and it's been this cold for weeks. It's been damp since that October, since the first night the sourness of doubt finally slapped me; since the fog rolled over my eyes, and I sifted wearily through the few sweet memories I was too stubborn not to cling to; and a piece of me died away with the sugared scent of dreams... and it's been this damp for weeks. It's been old since that October, stale and brittle in the crisp winter air, echoing through that reserved crevice in my mind that he will always own; his windblown reign is constant as my years form - sharp and piercing, yet warm - and it's been this old for weeks. It's been empty since October, since that scent of dreams decided to fade, and turn what was once a glimmering velvet sky into a vast, insignificant void of hints at silver light; since I set my heart adrift downstream and watched it grow smaller from the desolate bank, ever watchful of my aquatic days as they grow colder, and damper, and older; and it's been this empty since October. 2.23.01 ~ ~ ~ Rear View Window Distance, like snow, melts away between the lines of the rear view window, and thoughts, like deep rivers, eat canyons in my mind. I'm delving into crevices that were lost to darkness, and in that fading distance is my sunrise. Everything blossoms that can, and wilts under the shadow of a more beautiful flowering. I'm running through corridors, down spiraling stairways of my mind. I'm searching for a nameless face. A faceless pain. A painless dream. I can live in as many places as I want to. Each chamber is a life I've lived in such the precious world within me. My journey is endless and fleeting. I needn't walk, or drive, or ride, or run, to go afar. I can find marvels when traveling through my thoughts. And for some places I don't go anymore, I still have a key. But dream wilts into morning, one way or another. Why can't I spiral back into my world? I reach out with my eyes, my heart, my mind; but I'm awake now and the distance, like snow, melts away. 3.8.01 ~ ~ ~ Standing In The Doorway Standing in the bleak, cold foyer of my crisp and frozen world, the figures and numbers still toying with my memory, to her my thoughts unfurl, her midnight blue presence stained in the corner of my eye. Without an effort from the pale, sliced hands, she can send my stomach churning; without a word passed through her lips, she can set my soul to burning. Yet she's a child with a match; she knows not what she's stirring. She's a kitten on a chain, and only taught one purring. She's erected her own cage through her goddess of a whore, while I shake my head in pain for the dead girl I adored. And I stare across the foyer in my frost-lain, frozen world, dreaming up some false horizon to send my thoughts to, and I whirl away from here, away from her, away from daggers and razorblades; away from games, away from pain, away from dead and mourning strays. Away from heart, away from soul, away from beauty, my pale destruction; due to the one I chose to love who fled from me, into corruption. 3.16.01 ~ ~ ~ Kitten Curious how it feels to take the life I've clutched so firmly to my breast, the secrets I have locked away since childhood, the loves, the hates, the dreams, the life I've lived, dreamed, hated, loved, and splay it on the table for all to see. And curious the aftertaste of freedom, the exhilaration of confession, of incision of my soul. And looking back, and wondering, I feel simply curious. 3.23.01 ~ ~ ~ To Ponder In Germany I don't remember true acceptance. I don't recall when Taking Leave was snatched on the arm by Longing. I tested. And my disappointment was fed. I walked away, and felt no curious eyes trail after me as I trudged downhill in the autumn of my despair. Then was winter. Howling winds did not exist then, I was alone with the cold. In the distance were melted fields, already lush and green. My best care of scrutiny coult not detect a wilted leaf. And so, head hung, I trudged along. I knew they were not my fields. But I wonder if I follow the seasons across the globe. Seems as though the spring's breaking is long from overdue; and each of my footfalls sings morosely the crunch of ice and snow beneath my weary feet. But trudging on, above my tracks behind me, the smallest bud pierces through the frost. 3.23.01 ~ ~ ~ To Ponder At Sunrise She sits on a cliff on Mt. Indecision, her skin stained with blood from the heart in her palm. Long ago she'd be crying her fears to the canyon, but now she just watches, quiet, and calm. The mist will surround her in the frost of the morning; this she ponders abstractly with none else to do. Her friends, they have bored her, refused to adore her, and her only true preciousness took off on his cue. So she watches the dripping collide with her feet and dance down the mountain to the river below. And when the mists have retreated, she'll slip out of view, splaying out on the precipice the organ she stole for her own. 3.23.01 ~ ~ ~ Sixteen Years I am just a sixteen year old virgin that you would lay in ten seconds flat, I'm not so naive toward the fact that you would fuck me oh so fast. I'm trapped within my reverie, but I can't expect you to see that I am dreaming, unlike you who'd rather kill me for a screw. And you would enjoy it, wouldn't you? It wouldn't be that difficult. Find a loophole, one interest, one pasttime you could bear and backe me into the corner where your bed is found... then take your precious tastes. Keep it up, it's not like I have any hope of feeling pain or hurt or the blood that streams from every painful reminder that maybe I want my life after all, and I'd rather wonder what it's like than have the justification to cry. You cannot control me, no matter how much you think I will take from you until you think you have had your fill; I've never been pushed on the soiled, heartless sheets but I'll be damned if you show me what it's like. I am not a cheap lay, I am not a whore, I am not the innocent virgin girl of lore, I know what you want from me and how you will persist in your drunken, half-assed tries to force me into this But you underestimate the youth I do not own, for in these bitter sixteen years I've much more than you know. 4.10.01 ~ ~ ~ Anemone You are an infatuation, but you will not let me be. I know you are forbidden fruit, a windblown flower. I know too well the distance set in stride between your eyes and mine, your arms and mine, your lips and mine. And though I know you crave me; though I am your only hope that love is still alive, that love can truly thrive, you will not have me. Because of the footsteps between, I cannot have you. And I have to constantly remind myself that you are, and can only be, an infatuation. 4.11.01 ~ ~ ~ Khaos You are the center, you say, you are the everything of your little blackened world, blades and pills up to your neck, your slaves massaging out your back. Does hell break loose if one of them should back out of your reign? I did. You know I did that once. You watched me slip out all that time ago, but you never cared to draw me back into your filthy, fattened, wretched arms; I've noticed that they close so carefully around the necks of all you own in constant threat. Not me. You didn't want to hurt me in such a way. You knew a prettier route. A route of glory that would not only tear a wound in me, but strengthen your sick wealth. You could have stolen me, and quite easily, you knew how easily I caved. But no. You clutched the only thing I loved in your black-nailed, gothic, plastic claws, about the wrist - a ginger place - and coaxed her into your embrace. And in all her naivete, she allowed you. She opened a door for you to slither through; did you enjoy constricting her? When you slithered in and scuttled out, and the chain about her neck led back to none other than our beloved Gothic Queen? She's dead. And even know she can't see that she's a slave, a terrier yipping at the heels that dangle from your royal purple pillow. Your liar's chair? Well, you killed me. Happy now? But you know it will never make me submit to you, it will never make me follow you, and it will never make me love you. But you don't need that love, do you? It's just another pesky emotion you have to feign. You act well, I'll give you that. So. Continue your murder. Continue your false domination. Continue your reign as the perfect Dark Goddess. It's simple to see - if not one of your slaves - that you aren't, and never have been alive. And though you are a Barbie doll draped in lace of black, you are an unfortunate plastic reality. 4.20.01 |