| III. so where do we find Star this cobweb draped evening. Peering deep in darkened corners with dusted fingers in her haunted house. The stoned and drunken spider crawls up the stairs to bed, takes a bottle of asprin and almost winds up dead. So the spinner is spurred by his own creation and he wimpers and whines for sympathetic sighs...just take another hit buddy. You've come a long way from the children's song in a camper in the mountains. Star wonders silent eyed why his songs stopped so suddenly so young; why they turned instead to hallucinations and smoke. She becomes faint, faint, pale. She drags her feet until they become skeletons in her closet hanging amongst the moth ridden overcoats. She slams her fingers in doors to wake up, Star never has liked coffee. Or reality. Dissconnect. Dig the razor deeper. Reconnect. Maybe that is reality. Star may sleep sideways with her feet at the head of the bed to ward off green gnomes, and that's hers, but to you, she's insane. So fuck you. Go do bed with your head on your fluffed pillow tucked in by angels. You're boring. And maybe she dreams when she closes her eyes to sleep, and when she opens them again she's still dreaming. To you she's insane. To Star, it's reality, unattainable. Something to hope for. A reason to inhale the rusty polluted air of your lungs exhaled. And even if her dream is shattered Glass teardrops on her backwards pillow, it's still reality. Hers alone. Today, tomorrow, and yesterday. She rides the night mare deep into the hours. She doesn't watch the clock, she doesn't need to, because never isn't too late. The day can wait. Star can stand to remain transfixed by her new Jewel. Ruby. Catching a glimpse of a glimpse, Star throws back the warped wink and crooked smile of faded eyes and broken teeth. Not quite burned out, Star flicks a flicker flame to Ruby's red lips. For the moment she is real, for the moment alive. Connection. What connection does Star hold with people. Does she understand them and them her? No one can live another's reality, and thus can never fully understand. Understand. What does that even mean. Do people even "understand" themselves. Can a person ever fully understand what it means to put a dull razor to their skin and drag it across, do you know skin makes the same sound as tape when you slice it with a razor? It's hard to explain the need to hurt oneself. Perhaps it's hate. Imposed by outside forces. Or maybe it's the pitiful wimper of a weak and beaten down child, broken inside like a fallen kite. Star crys Ruby tears into dirty tissue until it hurts to move. Why won't anyone ever say what they mean? Torn spider's webs and flesh. Torn decisions. The question: is it worth it? Are any of these ass holes worth the pain. Or does Star just let them into her heart for the excuse of the whiplash scars across her legs and arms? Is this what she's wanted all along, daily thoughts of suicide. Itching scars, blurred vision, and muffled hearing. Alone in the sky burning out amongst all the other constallations. It's been said that it's better to burn out then to fade away, well, what happens if you do both? II. IV. back to main page |