i am still dreaming,
white clouds stretched
along the red of my tongue
as i bite, swallow
and choke back the terror
of this day.
i am waiting for you to hurt me.
though,
i can break myself easily
in the time before you arrive,
tighten my fingers across my neck,
scrape my nails down the curve of my spine,
twist the vertebrae clockwards
with a snap
and a small whisper of a scream,
like a child in the black velvet
of the night, when I awaken,
heart thudding as the blood
pools within my cheeks,
my body heavy as
I could each beat of each second
until i am no longer
sleeping.
Friday, 8 March 2013
Thursday, 7 March 2013
Lotus
I could hear them fighting down below. The force of the blows on the walls traveled through the house. The house never talked, because the only time it opened its mouth was to scream. Its eyes never left you, even after you were gone. The five little birds that had come before me had disappeared years ago, and they left a deafening silence meant to be filled by happiness. Yoselin was first to go. She couldn’t stand the feelings she’d been drowning in as the hands of the house wrapped around her neck.
I lay alongside the wall, my back on the floor. I could feel the hands brush along my body, fingering the paint flaking off my skin and clothes. I brushed them off, ignoring their protests. I didn’t care about them any more. They’d lost their hold on me over the years I’d been with you. Now, I was waiting, although I wasn’t sure what for. I think I was waiting for you, but I was scared that you wouldn’t come.
Maybe that’s why I’d taken my fury and directed it against the room. I beat the walls and pounded the door, leaving marks and stains from my hands when they began to openly bleed.
The bed was next. I hunted through the dresser drawers until I found the knife. The blade was perfect, pretty and personal, deadly in the arch from the handle to the point and the weight it carried in my palms. I gripped the handle and let it sink into the mattress. I hacked away, the stuffing spilling over onto the floor, as if by massacring my bed, I could cut away the ugly parts within me.
The balance in my mind tipped, and I fell off the scales. When I awoke, it was dark. That was the end of day one. The rest of the week was a blur. Food arrived at the door twice a day, and through the open space, I could see Nicole’s face twisted with some strange emotion. The door remained locked except for those brief intervals of time. The food I was given remained untouched. I just sat against the wall, day in and day out like a broken doll, unable to move.
On day three, a set of oil paints with brushes arrived instead of dinner. On day four, I picked them up. I suppose that was when I achieved a type of mental clarity. From then on, I gave up sleep. My room became a hell-like jungle with flowers blooming on the walls. I painted the lotus again and again, its sizes varying from small to large. I guess I was trying to find a non-painful way to bind myself to you. The knife lay forgotten on the corpse of the mattress.
I painted words across the floor, the walls and ceiling. Paint crinkled and cracked as I moved my arms after it had dried onto my skin. I want to die, I want to die, I want to die. I repeated those words over and over, like a spell.
I waited for the reaper to take me as a kind of punishment for everything I’d done. I gave up hope of being rescued by you. In my mind, it was a realistic fantasy.
On the seventh night, I ran out of paints and gave up my soul to the devil. I always thought that you were an angel, so in my delirious stupor, it was no surprise that you appeared in my room through the balcony doors. Maybe it didn’t seem quite real, because the moment you saw me, you began cursing. That’s something angels don’t usually do.
You picked me up and swung me down onto the ruined bed despite my protests. Maybe I fell asleep after that, or I fell unconscious from hunger and lack of water. I heard a car door slam, although I didn’t see anything. You were talking with a woman, your voices low enough for me to catch only random words. Suicide, food, school, tickets, money, address. All words leading to an escape.
The woman said thank you as I felt the car begin to move, and I thought I saw Nicole watching us as you drove away from the house. You told me to sleep, and I did.
That moment went on forever as the car slowly headed off to its destination. I felt safe with you, despite the fact that I didn’t know where we were going.
People say that heaven is full of flowers. I think that’s wrong. For hell is a garden, and its flowers bloom madly during the night. In the center, on a hill, sits a house. When you walk down the halls, you can hear ghosts whispering about the devil that haunts the building. The devil locked me in that room to pay for the sins I’ve committed. One can never fully escape from hell, though, and I’ll always pay for what I’ve done. I ripped the lotus from the walls and spread the petals across my face, crushing them into me.
I lay alongside the wall, my back on the floor. I could feel the hands brush along my body, fingering the paint flaking off my skin and clothes. I brushed them off, ignoring their protests. I didn’t care about them any more. They’d lost their hold on me over the years I’d been with you. Now, I was waiting, although I wasn’t sure what for. I think I was waiting for you, but I was scared that you wouldn’t come.
Maybe that’s why I’d taken my fury and directed it against the room. I beat the walls and pounded the door, leaving marks and stains from my hands when they began to openly bleed.
The bed was next. I hunted through the dresser drawers until I found the knife. The blade was perfect, pretty and personal, deadly in the arch from the handle to the point and the weight it carried in my palms. I gripped the handle and let it sink into the mattress. I hacked away, the stuffing spilling over onto the floor, as if by massacring my bed, I could cut away the ugly parts within me.
The balance in my mind tipped, and I fell off the scales. When I awoke, it was dark. That was the end of day one. The rest of the week was a blur. Food arrived at the door twice a day, and through the open space, I could see Nicole’s face twisted with some strange emotion. The door remained locked except for those brief intervals of time. The food I was given remained untouched. I just sat against the wall, day in and day out like a broken doll, unable to move.
On day three, a set of oil paints with brushes arrived instead of dinner. On day four, I picked them up. I suppose that was when I achieved a type of mental clarity. From then on, I gave up sleep. My room became a hell-like jungle with flowers blooming on the walls. I painted the lotus again and again, its sizes varying from small to large. I guess I was trying to find a non-painful way to bind myself to you. The knife lay forgotten on the corpse of the mattress.
I painted words across the floor, the walls and ceiling. Paint crinkled and cracked as I moved my arms after it had dried onto my skin. I want to die, I want to die, I want to die. I repeated those words over and over, like a spell.
I waited for the reaper to take me as a kind of punishment for everything I’d done. I gave up hope of being rescued by you. In my mind, it was a realistic fantasy.
On the seventh night, I ran out of paints and gave up my soul to the devil. I always thought that you were an angel, so in my delirious stupor, it was no surprise that you appeared in my room through the balcony doors. Maybe it didn’t seem quite real, because the moment you saw me, you began cursing. That’s something angels don’t usually do.
You picked me up and swung me down onto the ruined bed despite my protests. Maybe I fell asleep after that, or I fell unconscious from hunger and lack of water. I heard a car door slam, although I didn’t see anything. You were talking with a woman, your voices low enough for me to catch only random words. Suicide, food, school, tickets, money, address. All words leading to an escape.
The woman said thank you as I felt the car begin to move, and I thought I saw Nicole watching us as you drove away from the house. You told me to sleep, and I did.
That moment went on forever as the car slowly headed off to its destination. I felt safe with you, despite the fact that I didn’t know where we were going.
People say that heaven is full of flowers. I think that’s wrong. For hell is a garden, and its flowers bloom madly during the night. In the center, on a hill, sits a house. When you walk down the halls, you can hear ghosts whispering about the devil that haunts the building. The devil locked me in that room to pay for the sins I’ve committed. One can never fully escape from hell, though, and I’ll always pay for what I’ve done. I ripped the lotus from the walls and spread the petals across my face, crushing them into me.
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
The Egg Part III: Scrambled
She looked up from her table. The bells chimed. He pushed open the door.
“You’re late.”
“I know.” He pulled the chair across from her out and sat down. She smiled and he smiled. Then both of them laughed.
The waiter walked over and she asked for more coffee. He nodded to make it two. The waiter left and then came back with the drinks. She tore the lid off a container of cream and he added sugar. She then grabbed a spoon and began to stir, almost violently. He just let his cup sit there.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you getting married? Everyone is talking about it.”
“What?”
He felt like smiling, but he lacked the strength to move his facial muscles. She sat there, looking calm and composed like always. Neither of them knew how or when, but slowly, the tears began to fall.
She was crying silently as the tears rolled down her face and clung to the hair cascading down her shoulders. Her makeup began to run as it smudged and mingled with her tears, creating patterns as it dribbled down her cheeks.
He ran his fingers through his hair, catching hold and tearing through the tangles, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her. They sat there awkwardly.
All outside the café, it continued to rain, an attempt to drown out the sirens, the traffic and the voices as the neon signs blazed weakly in the gray.
Around them, the air was warm and stuffy, for the heat in the café was turned far too high. The potted plants drew flies, their soft buzz noticeable over the clanking of the silverware.
Neither of them said anything.
Slowly, once the tears had dried, she began to move, gathering her purse and swinging it up over her shoulder. He pushed back his chair, grabbed his briefcase and followed her out the door.
The bells chimed. “Thank you for coming,” floated above the traffic noise on the street.
They were holding hands as they walked down and across the road. It was the only form of relief they’d been given. The ability to go unnoticed in a crowd.
She wasn’t going to say it and neither would he. It was too delicate and strong a chain that was wrapped around them. Even though they both thought that the two of them should have been one person or had no relation at all. Then they would have been on the same playing field as everyone else at least.
God’s a bastard, though. It was still raining as they left.
“You’re late.”
“I know.” He pulled the chair across from her out and sat down. She smiled and he smiled. Then both of them laughed.
The waiter walked over and she asked for more coffee. He nodded to make it two. The waiter left and then came back with the drinks. She tore the lid off a container of cream and he added sugar. She then grabbed a spoon and began to stir, almost violently. He just let his cup sit there.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you getting married? Everyone is talking about it.”
“What?”
He felt like smiling, but he lacked the strength to move his facial muscles. She sat there, looking calm and composed like always. Neither of them knew how or when, but slowly, the tears began to fall.
She was crying silently as the tears rolled down her face and clung to the hair cascading down her shoulders. Her makeup began to run as it smudged and mingled with her tears, creating patterns as it dribbled down her cheeks.
He ran his fingers through his hair, catching hold and tearing through the tangles, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her. They sat there awkwardly.
All outside the café, it continued to rain, an attempt to drown out the sirens, the traffic and the voices as the neon signs blazed weakly in the gray.
Around them, the air was warm and stuffy, for the heat in the café was turned far too high. The potted plants drew flies, their soft buzz noticeable over the clanking of the silverware.
Neither of them said anything.
Slowly, once the tears had dried, she began to move, gathering her purse and swinging it up over her shoulder. He pushed back his chair, grabbed his briefcase and followed her out the door.
The bells chimed. “Thank you for coming,” floated above the traffic noise on the street.
They were holding hands as they walked down and across the road. It was the only form of relief they’d been given. The ability to go unnoticed in a crowd.
She wasn’t going to say it and neither would he. It was too delicate and strong a chain that was wrapped around them. Even though they both thought that the two of them should have been one person or had no relation at all. Then they would have been on the same playing field as everyone else at least.
God’s a bastard, though. It was still raining as they left.
Tuesday, 26 February 2013
The Egg Part II: Whites
He was late and was running. The rain was still trickling down and clinging against him in its desperate attempt to assimilate into his skin. The city around him was grey, as the cement slowly leeched away from the ground and started to surround him. It was raining like the heavens were dying, as the sky slowly started to slide and tilt down toward the earth in its broken realization of disintegration.
He looked a mess on the outside, water dripping down into his eyes, tie flapping as her ran, briefcase swinging at his side. On the inside, he was a child. He would play around with people and the words they spoke in a reluctant from of exercise.
The water rose up as the cars dragged their wheels through the puddles, splashing those who were in the vicinity. He was soaked, and yet still completely fashionable in a suit as always.
He kept sneaking glances of hidden crevasses as he ran past them. It was a boy’s game to imagine what treasure could be found hidden around you. He was still a boy, and he exploited that and the freedom it came with. It was a dream to laugh wildly and not care what people thought
There’s always art built in around the body and its surroundings. The sound of traffic as it bounces and curves around the hollow shape of the ears, and its affect on the sense of danger.
He hated the boundaries he was confined to by living. The unspoken rules as they wedged themselves deep into the skin and stuck like a rash that would never leave. He smiled, for she was always telling him that’s why he could never grow up.
He couldn’t though. Not while something sharp was stabbing him in the heart. He bit down and could taste blood. That’s all he was ever eating now, just the blood produced from rage as it overtook him.
He could see the café now.
He looked a mess on the outside, water dripping down into his eyes, tie flapping as her ran, briefcase swinging at his side. On the inside, he was a child. He would play around with people and the words they spoke in a reluctant from of exercise.
The water rose up as the cars dragged their wheels through the puddles, splashing those who were in the vicinity. He was soaked, and yet still completely fashionable in a suit as always.
He kept sneaking glances of hidden crevasses as he ran past them. It was a boy’s game to imagine what treasure could be found hidden around you. He was still a boy, and he exploited that and the freedom it came with. It was a dream to laugh wildly and not care what people thought
There’s always art built in around the body and its surroundings. The sound of traffic as it bounces and curves around the hollow shape of the ears, and its affect on the sense of danger.
He hated the boundaries he was confined to by living. The unspoken rules as they wedged themselves deep into the skin and stuck like a rash that would never leave. He smiled, for she was always telling him that’s why he could never grow up.
He couldn’t though. Not while something sharp was stabbing him in the heart. He bit down and could taste blood. That’s all he was ever eating now, just the blood produced from rage as it overtook him.
He could see the café now.
Monday, 25 February 2013
The Egg Part I: Yolk
She sat there at the table in the café, her coffee untouched, slightly off side of her elbows where they were perched on the table as she watched the world through the window. The people outside were always running, even more so today due to the rain. Recently, it always seemed to be raining, as if God couldn’t stop crying. She almost felt like letting tears fall as well, but she lacked the willpower to muster enough emotion.
On the outside, she looked refined and polished. On the inside, she was dead. She hummed like a well-oiled machine as she waited.
The inside of the world surrounding her was warm, with its usual abundance of potted plants and empty dishes, abandoned by people as they, too, began to run to some unknown destination. The atmosphere was sunny, like a comforting memory as it enveloped its dreamers, creating a particular state of mind that welcomed the consumption of it.
She was a dreamer, as she sat there admiring the soft reflection of her face. A dull, washed-out version of herself through the windows. Her colouring was dark and pale, the two shades trying to match her personality but failing to make an impact. She could see the fine spider-like lines as they traced the edges of her skin, forming the gentle movement that was her face.
She smiled softly. She laughed quietly. Still, she didn’t touch her coffee, and eventually the waiter asked if she was done with it. She told him to leave it, and so he did. Slowly, she began to rip the sugar packets apart and dump them into the liquid, creating a sugary sludge that she stirred it with a spoon.
Then she began to drink.
She loved her face and hated her body. For they were wrong in a way that was right, for it didn’t seem to match him. However, society accepted this relation the two of them had. Society accepted it, yet would not allow her that one pleasure.
She finished the drink and set the cup down with a thud.
She wished that she’d been born as part of him, that she’d been born as his heart. Because then she could always stay with him.
On the outside, she looked refined and polished. On the inside, she was dead. She hummed like a well-oiled machine as she waited.
The inside of the world surrounding her was warm, with its usual abundance of potted plants and empty dishes, abandoned by people as they, too, began to run to some unknown destination. The atmosphere was sunny, like a comforting memory as it enveloped its dreamers, creating a particular state of mind that welcomed the consumption of it.
She was a dreamer, as she sat there admiring the soft reflection of her face. A dull, washed-out version of herself through the windows. Her colouring was dark and pale, the two shades trying to match her personality but failing to make an impact. She could see the fine spider-like lines as they traced the edges of her skin, forming the gentle movement that was her face.
She smiled softly. She laughed quietly. Still, she didn’t touch her coffee, and eventually the waiter asked if she was done with it. She told him to leave it, and so he did. Slowly, she began to rip the sugar packets apart and dump them into the liquid, creating a sugary sludge that she stirred it with a spoon.
Then she began to drink.
She loved her face and hated her body. For they were wrong in a way that was right, for it didn’t seem to match him. However, society accepted this relation the two of them had. Society accepted it, yet would not allow her that one pleasure.
She finished the drink and set the cup down with a thud.
She wished that she’d been born as part of him, that she’d been born as his heart. Because then she could always stay with him.
Sunday, 24 February 2013
The Egg
The shell so delicately breakable
with a creamy white lace trim.
The outside looks so feminine,
so shatterable like glass
yet the yolk runs so thickly yellow,
hard to separate
the stubborn substances inside
and determine what to make of it.
with a creamy white lace trim.
The outside looks so feminine,
so shatterable like glass
yet the yolk runs so thickly yellow,
hard to separate
the stubborn substances inside
and determine what to make of it.
Sunday, 17 February 2013
Ice Cubes
It’s not as if it was an easy choice. The marble was cold against her skin as she huddled down within the ice cubes overflowing the bathtub’s oval curves.
Wine flowed down the counter and frothed into the corners of the room, blooming like mad flowers along the floor.
She couldn’t feel her skin. It’s not as if this was a suicide attempt. That would be too easy. She didn’t need to feel anything, though. She was waiting for him to open the bathroom door.
He would enter the house as he did every day. He’d hang his keys up at the front entrance, leave his wallet on the chest by the door, and throw his jacket over the banister. She could almost taste the black fabric of his clothing. She should know it. She’d peeled it back from his skin enough times.
It was a stunt. It was a desperate affair. It was all and neither of these. Slowly, she pulled herself out of the tub and staggered over to the mirror. The pale bruises and blue kisses left by the ice were the reminders of each night, reflected back slowly in the light of the moon.
The window was open and she loved the breeze. She couldn’t laugh, though. She turned back and slowly doubled over, almost falling head first into the tub. The crunch of the ice covered the sound of the door opening.
She knew it was him, even in her delirium. She always did. It was one of the gifts she had developed in their relationship. He’d managed to carve himself in deep, so that she could always feel him echoing from her memories. The curve of his hands dug in, twisting over her skin as he picked her up and extracted her from the tub.
The wine slowly sloshed up against the walls, staining itself in patterns against white paint, the cold tile of the tub, the glass broken in two and shattered on the counter. Ice trailed across the bathroom floor and out the door toward the bedroom.
The door closed with a click, and then the screaming began.
Wine flowed down the counter and frothed into the corners of the room, blooming like mad flowers along the floor.
She couldn’t feel her skin. It’s not as if this was a suicide attempt. That would be too easy. She didn’t need to feel anything, though. She was waiting for him to open the bathroom door.
He would enter the house as he did every day. He’d hang his keys up at the front entrance, leave his wallet on the chest by the door, and throw his jacket over the banister. She could almost taste the black fabric of his clothing. She should know it. She’d peeled it back from his skin enough times.
It was a stunt. It was a desperate affair. It was all and neither of these. Slowly, she pulled herself out of the tub and staggered over to the mirror. The pale bruises and blue kisses left by the ice were the reminders of each night, reflected back slowly in the light of the moon.
The window was open and she loved the breeze. She couldn’t laugh, though. She turned back and slowly doubled over, almost falling head first into the tub. The crunch of the ice covered the sound of the door opening.
She knew it was him, even in her delirium. She always did. It was one of the gifts she had developed in their relationship. He’d managed to carve himself in deep, so that she could always feel him echoing from her memories. The curve of his hands dug in, twisting over her skin as he picked her up and extracted her from the tub.
The wine slowly sloshed up against the walls, staining itself in patterns against white paint, the cold tile of the tub, the glass broken in two and shattered on the counter. Ice trailed across the bathroom floor and out the door toward the bedroom.
The door closed with a click, and then the screaming began.
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