Old Stories - part II
The rest of the stories lost in a clutter of other posts from my ‘main’ Tumblr account.
——
Baby doll
Sweet, sweet, baby doll
Won’t you come sit with me?
On this rustic, rusty bench
Watching time pass you by
~
Sweet, sweet, candy girl
Tell me why I fly away?
Shackle my ankle to the bench
Make sure I cannot leave
~
Sweet, sweet, sugar lips
Rest your head on my lap?
Let me stroke those
Pretty little cares away
~
Sweet, sweet, honey babe
Can I steal a kiss?
From that cupid’s bow
Set in a salacious pout
~
Sweet, sweet, treacle pie
Won’t you sit on my face?
Let me feel that watermelon burst
Over the curious quiver of my mouth
~
Sweet, sweet, angel cake
Stay a little while?
Let me smoke my last cigarette
Then let me fly away
——
She is not suffering
There are a million and one nails driven into her average flesh and her average bones. She is azure blue, translucent aquamarine, strong as water and weak as diamond shine. And as always she smells of contricity and compexity, with baked hot pearls and lightning cold ice. With her Goddess on her shoulder she leads her average life, wears her average clothes. Her Goddess prefers to dress in ethereal silk and lace, flowing through time like her blonde curled hair. Nobody knows how old her Goddess is. She is ageless, she is beauty throughout all time. And yet she chose this average shoulder, to fill with life and vivacity. She smiles on as her host dies a hundred deaths and is born a hundred births, with the rusted nails piercing through all of her body, missing all of her spirit. Her host - “her shit is my milk and her milk is my shit” - makes her rethink. Not her host, but her being. Her life renewed through dewy glistening eyes and a swollen cherry heart. The Goddess on her shoulder.
——
Flight of fancy
Him. Yes, him. He knows what to do when he matches her eyes. When he’s a quivering chivalrous shambles. When her skin is poker hot and her eyes are dry as sticks. He quells and he ignites, that’s what he does.
Her. Yes, her. She knows what to do while she’s soaring off to a velvet daydream of her own. When she’s spent of snap movements. When his skin is a sheen and his eyes are iron heavy. She tests and she reassures, that’s what she does.
Them. Yes, them. They’re sickening, aren’t they? But, you know, only in the most beautiful and graceful of ways.
——
10,000 pairs of eyes
This is in no way influenced by the wonderful Unreliable one’s blog post. Not at all. Yes.
Hang on, wait a second, hold the phone. Let me catch my breath. That’s better, now who am I supposed to be today? Her? The one with the stern face and the cold heart. The one who is calculatingly controlled and is being judged by every move. With a strong arm and a mouth set in a straight, strict line. Her?
Or maybe. Maybe. I’m supposed to be her? The one with the true care and compassion. The one with a bubble light heart and the will to do anything she can. With the wings and the freedom of flight. And with the optimism of a child, eyes pure to match.
Oh, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Then maybe today I’m meant to be her? The one with the maternal instinct ruling out over the rage bubbling underneath. The one with the falsetto chirp of speech. The one who will do as she’s asked with a plastic smile superglued in place.
Perhaps her? The one with the face painstakinly painted on. With the restraint and the quiet authority. The one who is always trying to get her head down and get on with it. Trying to get by. To get along as best she can with bullshit fakers and genuine ones.
Surely i’m not supposed to be her? The one with no perception of reality, just the constant sound of “what about?” “what if?” “surely not, but just maybe…”. With cheeks streaked with tears. With ears ringing of paranoia and instant distrust of everything. The one with everything to lose, but with the self-destruct button permanently stuck down. Please not her today.
Am I supposed to be her? The one with curiousity she can’t control. With the need to ask and ask and get answers she doesn’t want to hear. The one who spots every inconsistency and flaw like stray threads on a blanket, and picks and pulls until it unravels and she finds the end.
Perhaps her? The one with the laugh so loud and convincing. Where something little and silly sets her off out of control. With her chest fit to explode with wave after wave of laughter. Infectious. Over something no-one else would even smile at.
Maybe I know who I’m supposed to be today. Her? With energy in buckets, and always moving, fidgeting. With a beaming smile and a hundred-mile-an-hour monologue for everyone. The one so tiring for others to watch, as she fast-track burns herself out.
Your guess is as good as mine.
But what about when things start to blur? As someone good and kind said, you can try to compartmentalise. But what happens when the edges run into each other? What happens when it runs as frequently as your mascara runs? Bleeds as often as your heart bleeds? As your scars bleed? Carcrash. Grotesque disaster of a life. Come with me on a journey through them all, individually and all at once and you’ll wish you never started. You will wish. You will.
——
Tragic Princess
There’s an ultimate sadness behind her eyes, shining out like a pure black light. Like a tragic princess who has had everything handed to her on a silver plate, and still feels as though she is owed the world, has had nothing, has known suffering like no other.
She takes a joyous moment to skip and jump, the snowfall has long stopped, and yet the trees still echo it. She jumps from under canopy to canopy, not wishing to give up this personal blizzard, created by the crisp diamond clear breeze, solely for her to revel in.
She arrives, frozen stiff but in doe-eyed childness, she puts herself in the microwave and hits defrost before slamming the door, unthawing, basking in unnatural heat, cheeks glowing. And ting, she’s done.
And so the light of her eyes fades from red back to black, she once more becomes the tragedy of a life. Wondering when she moved from dead to so alive it nearly kills her. Navel-gazing of the highest Royal order, as to where she went right, so absolutely right, and where she went wrong. Pondering a shadow life, stable but numb like her whole body that morning. Considering a vibrant life, so full of rollercoaster moments, soaring highs, stomach dropping feelings, and complete dispair of such extremes. Such terrible joy. Such blissful sadness. Such a life.
She knows the one she’d prefer, and braces herself once more for the bitter chill of the journey, skipping then suddenly stopping, waiting for the next ice-white confetti drift from towering branches.
——
I died a hundred times
She smells of face powder, of despair, of a iceberg of a diamond and humanity. She throws her head back in a moment of agitated contemplation, and is a blur of dark hair. She is purposefully not answering any questions. She is deliberately avoiding those answers. She is not as she seems, she is instead a ghost, a half-life, an aura displaced. She sets about destroying all her work, all her ambitions, all her integrity. She drags her ragged nails across her arms, making jagged ditches of skin and blood. She knows that this comes in an instant, and in an instant more, it will be gone. But still she’s left, with a fetish for pulling out her hairs one by one, dissolute in her trichotillomaniacal abstraction.
——
An idea, revised
Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, and a twinkle of light, there is hope. All the delusions and confusions cast aside in a moment of perfect clarity. Of connection. And there can be nothing other than truth and trust in this moment, this sparkling moment. Still the moment persists, and goosebumps pucker tight with the thought of all the emotion, raw and unrefined. True and trusted emotion, present without words, lingering long after.
——
An idea
I stood outside. To see if I could be purified. Like the brown and grey landscape, dotted with sadness, disease, guilt, horror, disgust, and unrest. Everything turned clean and pure, renewed, reborn. Except me. For I will always be what I am, and I will never be what I am not. And I will never be satisfied. Always searching for purification.
——
Last time
He smells of lemon drops and tulips and suede tears and simplicity. And his heart beats in double quick time. In two-step. Dancing to a rhythm only in his head. In his lack of mind as she constantly and consistently provokes him. Pushing pushing, pinching and testing. And it is bliss.
——
Complexities
She is red, green, blue and black. She is cherry and vanilla and butterscotch and chocolate. She is earth, wind, water and fire. She is spring. She is summer. She is autumn. She is winter.
She is all of those and she is none. She is battling them all and accepting of nothing. She is looking to be one. She is everything. And she is nothing.
——
What would you do?
If you walked like I walk, would you make the same choices I have?
If you sang like I sing, would your voice crack at the same lines?
If you danced like I dance, would you too dream of dancing in the rain?
If you wept like I weep, would you too want me near?
If you broke like I break, would you understand why you are?
If you loved like I love, would your heart break every time I have to say goodbye?
——
An admission
It comes in rhythm, it comes in rhyme. It descends without warning. It arrives after planning to the last second. It leaves you up, and it leaves you down. But it leaves you. Always.
It keeps you breathless, it takes your breath away. It soars all around your head, chanting incantations in your ear, drilling its desire into your soul. It reminds you that you are alive, it tells you that you were dead. It feels like a thousand needles piercing your skin, it feels like a thousand feathers tickling your toes. It leaves you misunderstood and misunderstanding. And it leaves you. Always.
But it never really leaves you.
——
He is peppermint bliss on the tongue, forming curlicues of roses and daggers
He smells of rough salt and danger and spring-soft silk under light fingertips
He rises from his cotton slumber only to draw his fingers across your throat, and to sigh a melting icecube sigh
And you wonder how your battle scars fell to the dusty floor.
——
Two pools of icy dawn dusk. He gazed at every crease and crinkle. And he knew she was perfectly flawed.
——
And laying there in the dead of night, as her skin breathes next to cool cotton, with the tortured souls’ screams echoing below her, and the angels weeping above, she wonders what it means to be alive.
blog comments powered by Disqus ← Previous Post Next Post →
