Friday, April 3, 2009
Characters Are So Demanding.
She’s such an addict, writing on her skin, paper thin phrases she prays her mother never sees so they don’t get ripped from her wrists and ankles as the ink drips down onto her fingertips where she licks it off, a stream of bitter insecurities on the tip of her tongue.
She drifts in streams of lilac trees where beauty grows like moss upon her shoulders and mixes with copper hair, hiding those eyes, shattered storm puddles placed in her face to gaze so solemnly up at a sun of melting butterscotch candy from a flower stained grave.
She dances for the starlight and folds her body into origami shapes so the moon will kiss her unashamed skin with its rays; she wouldn’t quite call it worship when she twists her hands in floral patterns across her chest, it’s more of a falling in love all over again with the nighttime breezes that caress her cheeks as garish daylight sinks away until her mouth is filled with pretty, silent music that only she can truly hear.
Her dreams are made of honey droplets and spider silk wound tightly around stream bed curves and a ribbon of regret encircling her emaciated waist; she is made of bones and skin and plumb flesh she pinches playfully, gleaming at the marks she leaves.
She devours words, her lips taking in all the unpleasant lies that drip from others’ mouths; she loves to drink the wine of disdain and angst that speaks of deadly summers and their poison songs being sung to our eyes, to our lives; she wants to believe the blasphemous wonders painted in the melted butter lyrics that assault her ears like safety glass shards, almost sharp enough to touch her splintered almost soul.
She speaks in third person like someone forgot to tell her that she isn’t a character in the book she is sure is being written at this moment; with silver strands of jubilant sorrow flowing through her bloodstream, she feels so different from everyone else, like a stranger walking around, a tattoo on her forearm with swirls and twisted words spelling out an undefined mural of what her life is supposed to be,what everyone is supposed to see when they look into her eyes.
She wants to be original, but she still writes poetry about love because maybe she wants it too, maybe she can’t get someone out of her head, out of her heart; that just makes her ever more a part of the majority, not that being a minority is very difficult when freak is written across her forehead and her mouth is sewn shut by a flame blacked needle with thread made from ripped up photographs of what she was sure love was made of.
Now she runs bony fingers thought her chipped hair, snow sprinkled on her eyelashes, waiting for him; dust is collecting on her knees, a dark veil across her eyes hiding the fear that he’ll never come again.
She is lost and poetic, she is burning and alive, it’s time for her to realize that he’s not part of her; it’s time for her to whisper goodbye to everything. She feels multicolored pain seeping into her just-healed bones like all the horizon rainbows are really bullets being shot from pretty guns, driven into her flesh and leaving unseen scars that make her all the more unbeautiful.
She strips down to her frozen flesh and sings in a low voice of hopelessness for what never was and what remains of nothingness; her mouth is but a bucket being filled with water words, reflections of the dying skies and darkened stars that no longer shine for her.
Her fingers wrap around the shoulders of people who want to hold her, want to love her, and she cries for them because she can only bring them anguish; in their eyes she sees that they need someone more, someone better, and that she really is meant to walk alone along the paths of life, because brokenness isn’t meant to be shared.
Wet falls through her fingers in tasty raindrops; she wants to soak them through her skin and become the storm instead of flesh, but they slide off her body, laughing at her tears masked by the ever plummeting shards of water echoing as the splash in dramatic death throes.
She loathes the sensations but can’t help adoring all the precious little things that surround her; she is a mess of confusion and ignorance and she is everything that she can’t stand in a person. She wants to live and wants to die but is too sacred of breathing to stop her breaking lungs from collapsing because air is the reality she doesn’t want to believe; it means she can’t pretend that being alone doesn’t scare her more than anything.
Her eyelids are dropping across muddy white stones softly lodged in her head, and sleep might be longer for it she weren’t already dreaming things that no one wants to see; maybe she really is crazy, but it doesn’t matter, since that’s what everyone keeps telling her anyway.
She still believes in her sanity, most days, believes in lost love and being original in some painfully cliché ways that long for everything she can’t have, but why shouldn’t she?
I LOVE YOU 8:11 AM
♥ desires for my birthday and thenon
Kevin Max's Raven Songs album
A USB Yamaha digital recording piano keyboard
Rock Band for Wii
My silver star necklace
My gold star necklace
My jiggly Giraffe silver necklace
The Sanyo Xacti HD underwater digital camcorder (lime green!) when it comes to the USA
The complete Powerpuff Girl's season collection
Freaks & Geeks season collection
Foster's Home Of Imaginary Friends season collection
Real Madrid European football paraphernalia
Broncos American football paraphernalia
A Lara Croft Halloween costume
TWLOHA Deon sweater
A Purpose For Pain TWLOHA book
A USB SD camera card reader
A pineapple mug to drink liquids in
Pineapple antics in general
Giraffe antics in general
Tim Hawkins stand up comedies
A teal colored automobile to drive, that's better than URN
