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.
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.
..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.
When some men die it is as if you had lost your pen-knife, and were subject to perpetual inconvenience until you could get another. Other men’s going is like the vanishing of a great mountain from the landscape, and the outlook of life is changed forever. ~Phillips Brooks
There is pain that cuts through you so viciously, without mercy, that it leaves you in a state of perpetual bliss. Something vanishing, in which you [lie] upon the graciousness of your own misfortunes, and what is yours is shaken into dire states of desolation..
This is not that pain..
This pain is delicate. So delicate, in fact, that were it to be caressed with but the single breath of wing.. it would shatter. This pain is held in the silence of a calmness. This pain is isolated so well, that it dare not even quiver for the sake of forsaking nothing and everything in the depths of absolution. It is something to be tethered, cradled, coddled, and traced in the gentlest of heartbeats that sound off in unison beneath a courageously lacking shell. A facade built so well, and so quickly, that the tremors of folly beneath it wait in stillness for that all too familiar collapse to set the world in flames.