She sat quietly within the framed illusion of her madness.
grasped at the shards that lay beneath pale flesh in open subjugation to her shadows.
The most delicate of frowns had touched a crease upon her brow.
spent and trembling,
losing the vice upon each breath until lashes fluttered down; fingers trailing a path of moisture drawn to the surface.
In the stillness of the evening air she finds that she can breathe, and yet..
In the whispers of the morning light, she withers deep within.
For the quiet soul that screams in peace dares never reach, and yet..
There’s a taste of warmth and something stirs and she finds her will to sin.
There’s a decadence of Devilish nature which draws her,
tendrils licking along her spirit as the ash settles..
slivers, like a melody to the calm that brushes along a sinful grace.
Something shivers along her skin as she brightens in the shadows..
the flames behind her eyes a quiet dance;
drawn to the chaos centered at the tips of each finger laced along forgiving flesh..
heard only in the breathless coiling of surrender..
A purposeful masterpiece of crevices undiscovered..
A feast for a Jack of all the frozen lands;
but a Miss-[tress] serviced in binding to none.
One rampant, random response to an outreach of uncertainty; uniquely presented..
One blunt moment of truth and understanding, laced blindly to the symphony of fallen skies..
One meager whisper of an earnest need, lain to rest in the misery of fearful self-preservation..
One (or two) sustained traces of un-romanticized, and unashamed, fruition of a desire; born in leisurely exploratives only begun..
.. These are the things that cracks and crevices are bred of. Creeping slowly along the skin, twisting and splitting in an achingly persistant path of destruction. So sinfully sweet that it bares a second glance. Something to be admired for the restoration of what bound shadows to the edges, and for the tethering of glistening warmth in which replaces each stitch come undone. It isn’t a promise to revel in the blades beneath silvery lies.. nor is it a breath of illusion so grand in seeking restitution.. but a whim, gloriously trailed on the curtails of ashes in earnest. An offer of common ground upon which to arch in willing subjegation; blessings graced in finding desires matched.. and bonds concieved in the stillness of simplicity. One before the other, entangled in nothing yet the lacing revealed by the etches of cracks and crevices is held in something.
One [Blunt] moment of [Gent]-ility can alter everything, and nothing, at all.
“Ginge.. you are less than twisted, but definitely worse than cheeky..” ~ My one “true” Aquaintance
I had been staring into the abyss for quite some time. Possibly, probably, awaiting the moment that the shadows would stir and something mischevious would stare back. Novel, but alas, it never seems to be the breath necessary.
I always forget that part. Breathing. Mundane, but is it? Often I find myself holding on to it for no other reason than the habitual diversity of function seems to have left me. Lost, so thoroughly, in whatever bliss was whirling tenderly along the lining of a mind cast aside; forgotten.
Those words were an awakening, and even though there was no sound that could be heard, I believe it was felt like a shiver in the air between us. Laughter. Something completely devilish, chaotic, and heard so often in the silence of batted lashes that he expresses from time to time his own madness; unsure which is real.
I know absolutely nothing about him, nor he I. Friendship is the least of what I would refer to silence as. Mutual glances from time to time over the flow of something red, and flavorful.. a hinderance that is tasted fruitfully. He breathes for me, and in moments, the film of mist shifts and the darkness settles as always around us. Worn, carefully, without the touch of disdain so many fail to notice. Too many lay eyes up on flesh or hands upon the eyes in meaning to grasp at one or another; there is never either. There is space. Clarity. A hush that is desired, until, at the emptiness of the last swept motion of need it’s simply gone.
He leaves me alone.
That earns my presence.
For the sake of this arrangement; I do so hope mutiny remains behind his tongue.
I have such little interest in the sound of lies.
Once, upon a wish; a scream
alone she sat in peace of dreams
and for the depths of hollow shame
Came no one, nothing; timeless blame..
In life and love, for all the woes
a sinner sheds the garb it chose
by [Melody] the Devil dances
Came no one, nothing; darkened glances..
There’s no one who can fill the void
of tattered [mourning]; sunlit joys
a dampened curse gets played, and still
upon the darkened window sill
she sits and waits while turmoil renders
every moment, every gender
from him to her, and them to they
the twisted little dreams replay..
a [whisper] quote the churchmouse; dead
a scream, the lion, begs in dread
there’s nothing and there’s no one here
but all the souls are set and near..
she waits, she dares, she lives in fear..
Speak long enough,
with just enough drawn out warmth to your words..
and anyone will believe you..
What then of the girl who doesn’t care to be believed? The girl who shelters her tongue, mirroring quietly the undetected closure cast aside and forgotten?
There is always one.
There is always that soul that watches in peaceful silence; noting, notating, negotiating in her own mind all the things that could have been but are less than desired by desire herself..
With every curve of a smile she doesn’t feel.
With every tilt of her head that she knows guides the seldom wrong into comfort; as if she cares. As if their words held her interest, when in truth, she is miles away in the tethered backdrop of her own creating.
She lies, still.
In every single tasteful breath that sighs a lilt of southern bliss, all too easily repeated in a melody of joy when it’s picked up; picked on..
In each and every rise and fall of pitch and tone. The moments when she plays upon the innocence expected of her, and the litany of misfortune that supposedly she is to wear around her in brace.
She lies very well, but to whom?
Is the purpose in the lie of the girl that prefers silence to the chattering of the meaningless?
Is it the calm in the control, that just in such a solitary moment, she can piece it all together.. She can grasp what eludes her, even in her own mind; so unknown?
Perhaps, it’s in the hope that she’ll be more than seen.
That she’ll be known.
Not for what comes out of her fingertips, but for what drips off of her tongue in the stammering chaos of misguided attempts to still her quivering words..
Till then, she is content.
I, am content.