30. D-o-l-l-h-o-u-s-e

..and when her silence was shattered, the splinters pierced the Abyss; lighting the embers with her madness..

Gather the tendrils as they dance through the shadows, and tangle them in repetition against your fist. Listen as the sweetest desolation plays as a symphony against the screams. Their melody sways beneath the whispers of a haunting smile, torn at the edges, and laced with the corsets of the pristine little souls bathed in ivory..

Pull them tighter..
Bind them to the rings against the Monster’s teeth..

Gracious door traced in ivy that swirls, lit by a shell with a dying flame still bracing itself against the hollows. Enter carefully, wistfully, as though your toes were tracing the sand in the storm brewing ahead and behind what can’t be held. What can’t be followed.

Shut the door behind you..
Flick the lock and mark the edges with secrets shed..

There’s a sheet where the girl with the stitched joy used to rest, lain in heaps, and folded at the center just so. Just at the ends where the folds are slit, and the curtains are drawn to keep the curious​ within. The answers hacked of assumptions are under the floorboards, and the ghosts of the present are boxed away with the Kay beneath the bed. Upon the bedpost. The knob against the ground where the roots are twisted and knarled to hold the dollhouse against the counter..

Marble never felt so smooth..
Trace the misconceptions till they are welcomed at the treasures keep..

Ecnelis met the binds with a smile, and in basking beneath the fallacies of anxiety; she was faced with her future.

She was faced with herself in the mirror of the Dollhouse.

Silence slipped from the constrictions of freedom, and from the ashes of sheer distinction rose who she’s always been.

It’s a pleasure to meet you all.

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26. S[hhh]elf – Inflicted

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Screams whisper about as well as Silence.

When there is nothing holding you in place, except for your own inability to remove the pins from the wall, that.. is fear. That is a silence that is all encompassing, and yet, it has a distinctive ability to cover [my] Earth in its validity. It is a warped sensation. From the edge of that pretty little visionary line, you can see the silhouettes so poised in preparation to be of some use; dismissively. Yes? No. Your surrounding endeavor is one riddled with trepidation, and it stands to reason, that beyond the delicately lain tendrils of your own misdoings is some semblance of aversion. To what, being the answer that bares ground in no tangible question. Everything is as it seems, and nothing truly falls within the realm of being unfounded; so… twist the anything, and mark it with the grievances of nonsensical confinement. That should do it..

But…

 

25. Take a walk with me..

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.. beyond the boundaries of all you’ve thought was known.

If the illusion is to be held, make it hideous. Pretty lies slip from the tongue with fervency, but [oh!] the true addictions are beneath in the creative callousness that withers away the bone with crude verbiage. If the illusion is to be held.. twist it, mock it, take stock in it and truly let it grow into something so ravaging that it creates a safe haven of cruel deliverance. Give it a life so grand, that it is boisterously silent, and needs only to be whispered to shake the flesh into submission; where the mind shall follow the spiraling depths of perversion. If ever it did so rattle the cages of beats.. one beyond the other.. to truly sing within the shadows of restlessness.

If the illusion is to be held, make it count. Otherwise..

21. Innocent corruption..

“There is nothing so painful, as walking on the shards of your own inhibitions.. There is, also, nothing so delicious as Another creating a Masterpiece of their edges.”

Not all changes occur over time. Some, in fact, are swift and vicious. Creating a vice, with which to steal the soul in all its chaotic glory. Methodic is a way to lease a less intricate statute..

 There is nothing so lovely as when the eyes behold the promises of Sin, and nothing so constricting as the lines of Heaven that blur such a glimpse. Namely, when that “one” has discovered that they favor the distinction even in the shadows of confusion. A confusion, in truth, which is labored in clarify and drawn deep within breaths of magnificent destruction. A monotonous deformity.. perhaps? 

It is every little girl’s dream to grow up, and by some fancy of illusionary grace, marry her Daddy. Some grow and ripen into disillusioned mongrels, who tilt the world, and bask in the sympathetic lisps of a Daddy’s design. Then.. there are those who walk the threaded line where no true answer can be given. They love without constraints of monogamous bearings, and wilt beneath the bindings that wear like jaded shackles upon a “normal” spirit. I.. I love beyond what’s right, live in a bliss of well drawn sin, and deem it to be worthy for the fur which wraps around my little heart. A gentle hand, a heavy heart, and all can be met in the center..

Sometimes, happiness is found in the most sorrowful places…

19. [Sleep]-Less…

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Lay your head to rest, little one.. this torment pleases not even I.

Somewhere in the shadows of her soul, she felt the fingers gripping her in retribution. Mistakes, so stark that they painted her flesh like a wicked canvas of irony, played out within the night. Sleep taunted her, cruelly mocking every breath until at last her cries were anguished bliss against the walls… A searing, tantalizing greed beckoning her into submission. A weakened state of strength surrendered..

Silence often stretches like a canvas. A blank sheet of mere whispers, where the voices are tangled, and their teasing beats of nonsense design the minds madness. Silence is a creation of wicked delights. A blissful place where the spirit can either soar, or drown, given the knowledge that a body can do neither upon a carpeted floor; alone..

There is an ugliness in that moment of waking. That pitiful, destitute moment of need unmet. Where silence is torn from the tongue in screams unheard, and the resolute chaos that would ensue is taken upon nothing..if not a bare breath to taint the silence imagined..

Give up, little one. It has passed you, by your own delicately stricken release..

..so it has..

18. Perception..

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You are nothing, if not bred to bathe in the scents of distress, little one.

Ever the dismissive creature, habitually cloaked in the shadows of restlessness, she waved a hand and fell subtly into stride. Her hand, delicately risen to weave a path along the silence of His lies, was soon found pressing along her temple. A hint, slight and shirked in moments, that her mind was a playground for the damning evidence of her heartache… she lied with the innocence of a child, and it shone in the honesty of her gaze. A vision, thankfully, which none would bare witness to as she walked in stirring memory through her days.

There was nothing stirred, which was not worth the liquid. Worth the taste. Humanity was a continuation of lifelong lessons shied away from, and ignored. There were none that did what was truly desired, against their will. No, even the promise of death was a fear all too fleeting, and the base of what creation shadows the soul will rise for a lick of the fallacy…it is within.

It is deep in the regions better left to the stark nature many have forgotten. It is a choice, a whisper, a greed of differences that sets each and every partaking patron [alike]. Indifference? Perhaps, in some shaken corner of the timeless, there is a path that cares for little. Yet, we are taken to what we hold as dear, and we linger for the caresses that tangle our tresses..and fire our pulses into deathly trials..

It is nothing, if not merely how we see the things before us. Behind us. Between us…

It is, in fact, nothing.
Such is my given perception.

17. Shattered silence..

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To what, Dear, am I owed the pleasure of such displeasure? Have you found yourself fallen, again?..yes..

It tears at the very soul, and in moments passing, I find that the voracious absurdity only builds. A rapidly encroaching abomination, uttering the foulest of desires to twist a fantasy from the wrenching heart..a heart that sputters in attempting full life once more..

It is frightening. There is no other word for it. There is a splitting of the mind, and the spirit coaxes a shattered beat to pick a path. A path so rotten and mangled with years of silence, that the vision lain upon it can scarcely comprehend…

There is ALWAYS a left, or a right. A decision that can be made in ruthless abandonment, if only the offending words could be governed somehow. What then? What then of the lips so sealed with fear, that the very lacing is crusted and threatens poison to the being sworn to be protected in this silence? It is stark. It is ugly. It is an admission that creates a diamond in showering the slopes of gentility, and it rests heavy upon some comforting material when once the day is forced to an end…

Green is nothing, if not an ugly coloration..especially when it is draped upon the flesh like a chosen garb of punishment…