lilacmurderer

Suicide Child. Rain Baby. Pink Goddess. Lilac Murderer.
She could kill you with the way she smiled. Her hair was purple and her eyelids were lined with glitter. She wore thigh-high rainbow colored fishnets and black pumps that made her seem towering and graceful.
Her death was like waiting for nine months to be reborn. Her eyelids became thinner and her hair lost its luster. She quit her job as a tattoo artist and let the pierced hole in her belly button grow over. She laid in her bed day after day, watching the faeries paint willow trees and haunted castles on the walls of her apartment.
She lived in Seattle, where she knew it would always rain and everything would be okay. She couldn�t ever fall asleep without the window cracked open and the rain dancing in against the floor. Her wrists were bruised and her hair was falling out. She had carved the phrase �Moon River� on the heel of her foot and watched with glazed eyes as the maroon liquid pooled on her sheets of linen.
She never bought furniture, but lived with simply a pile of books and a mattress. Occassionally she would dance around in her apartment to the music that she could hear ringing in through the window, carried by the rain. It was more obnoxious than punk, more gaudy than glam, and more killer than metal. Afterwards, she�d lie on the cold, hard wood floor and finally breathe.
Her lip liner never faded and neither did the gold rims along her eyelids. She had unicorns in her blood and magic in her kiss. She ate cold chinese food on the floor of her apartment, reading novels no one had heard of and no one had cared for. Her knees were bruised from going out late at night and dancing in the clubs for men.
She�d kneel and run her palms over her breasts and inner thighs, tossing her hair as she pouted her lips. Her dancing didn�t do enough though, and they cut off the heat to her apartment in the winter. She simply curled up in a linen sheet and sang Christmas carols under her breath to the frozen drops of rain that cascaded into her room.
The only things she ate were packs of lifesavers and the only thing she breathed was the smoke from her cigarettes. She didn�t need air or feasts. She wasn�t human. She never wanted to belittle herself to what humanity had become, so she though she could pretend to defy what everyone needed.
She was the purple haired Marilyn Monroe and the female James Dean with neon colored mini skirts and vinyl shirts that hugged her breasts. Her dances became more vulgar and promising. The halo around her eyelids blackened and her lip liner smeared off as she settled into her mattress one January night.
Valentine�s Day passed and men threw roses and boxes of chocolates through her rain-flooded, open window. She just popped her bubble gum that was Barbie flavored and laced, not caring for any of them. They cut off the electricity to her apartment.
She sat eating her lifesavers in the dark, with a single purple candle sitting next to her skinny body. Months had passed, and the rain never brought her rainbows or faeries. Winged demons slept at the foot of her bed, kissing between her thighs while she cried.
Suicide Child. Rain Baby. Pink Goddess. Lilac Murderer.
She could kill men with her kiss. They all fell in love with her, but she just tossed her hair and danced into her own world, not caring for anything human.
Her death was more shocking, though. It was black and white, like Marilyn Monroe and she was the female James Dean, curled and shaking against her window. She hadn�t slept in days. The rain ran over each strand of her purple hair. Her eyes were black and white, suicide colors, with blue drops of blood splashing from her heels.
They found her, our Rain Baby, curled in the corner with an unopened package of lifesavers and a few smoked cigarettes. She had tears that were so fresh on her cheeks. But she wasn�t dancing to music no one else heard. She was lying there, with �Moon River� carved on her arm. The �r� had slashed against her wrist, too deep to stop the blood flow. Her electric darkness could only make her more beautiful.
She was still wearing her thigh-high rainbow fishnets, with her purple hair pulled back into a bun. Her eyeliner had stumbled down her cheeks from crying.
She never wanted to be a human. She never wanted to belittle herself to that. But their were bruises on her chest from where she had beat her fists against it to rip out her heart. She had fallen in love, belittled herself to whatever he was. She danced for him, and him alone. He was her Shadow Chaser, Rain Maker, Golden God, Tulip Murderer.
As they rolled her over, two empty bottles were found next to her. Vodka and asprin. Her lips had been virgin to the drink, chapped and bleeding from the bitterness. They buried her out under a willow tree, where the rain could drip from the small leaves onto her tombstone. The graveyard seems so much darker now�
A new girl moved into her old apartment. She has platinum Marilyn Monroe hair and they say she�s a female James Dean. The only way she can sleep is if it�s raining. Her eyes have silver lids, crystal and forever.
She carved the words �Lilac Murderer� onto her heel, then climbed to her feet and headed out into the night. She was already late for her job at the club.
Midnight Dancer. Hollywood Star. Rainbow Gypsy. Rose Murderer.