31. Reoccurring [miss]behavior

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..and the innocent shall be but a memory; vague beyond the tragedy.

Broken little things, become carefully crafted versions within the shards. Each trickle of essence that bled along the lines still whispers; tangibly grating. A ceaselessly melodic ticking that drums the tips of pain against the edge. Bliss is just beyond the tearing flesh, and still.. it’s [still].

It’s a silence that grips where all the screams of the world have dropped into nothing. It’s a chaos that sweetly sings to the childlike dreams, which are far and few from one to the next.. gently carving out a path to return. So delicate, in fact, that you come to miss the catastrophe when it touches the light of ecstasy. It’s.. me.

 

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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.

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..