32. [Self] Chicanery

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A girl [lies] beneath the Woman.. but the woman simply lies. 
Speak long enough,
soft 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..

She lies.
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?
For what?
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.
To [lie].

 

 

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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.

 

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.

29. Slowly..

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.. seconds.. they WILL turn to moments.

Those moments, breath by self-destructive breath, have found some sense of sensibility shaken back into a monotonous routine. Thriving would be a word ill used, but alive.. that would suit the devastation that has come and gone. Leaving behind it a hinted glimmer of something warm upon the horizon..

To be plain, and brief, it has been a little over a month since the passing of my Opa; my Grand Father. I am still not myself, and don’t foresee that I will be in the near future. I’ve made peace with the anger, and for the most part have come back from the blackness with which I found comfort.

As to writing.. it may still be a bit before I return.

A close soul has their suspicions, and has stated thus: “When you do finally decide to write again.. I have a feeling it’s going to shatter your Silent facade”.

If only you could see the smile that was given for those words. Perhaps it IS time to break beyond Ecnelis. Wouldn’t that be something to see?

23. Trust can be.. curious..

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If [you] knew the particular poison.
If you were told its details in precision, without omission of the smallest sort, right down to how it would lead you into the confines of madness..
Would you still take it?
Would you [willingly] take it, drink it, touch it, perhaps.. wait for it in the darkness of curious wondering?

Now..
If you were told, after, that it wasn’t poison. Would you believe it?

If, perhaps, it was not a “thing”..but a sensation that laced its way along your spine..
..and left you with a breath that could barely be categorized as “shaken”, would you still?
If the very darkness of it gave you dreams, so delicious, that your [heart] ached?
If the idea of it, alone, dripped off your tongue in whispers of all you dreamed?
If you only had the words of another to go on.. would you?

I would.
Some moments.. I believe that I am.

It’s a chaos that cannot rightly be explained, when the moment of “What if” is met squarely with all that can be counted as a reckoning. Sometimes, chaos is not so loud as to drown out the sensations.. but a delicate [whispering] of curiosity that sends one into a place, so deliciously scattered, that the pieces are forgotten. Not ignored, or left in waste, but forgotten for the pure fact that someone else has taken the board. Fingers, which curl decisively beyond your own, move the shards in an arrangement that is yet to be revealed. A question leads to inner reflection never before glimpsed, which leads to whispered words and bitten [flesh] as an answer is sought from the [shadows].. which leads to stolen glances, curiously halted breaths, and the knowledge that another piece has shifted. Though, you know not where. It could very well be nowhere, and  yet, it is somewhere all the same.

Whether a loss, or a gain, is yet to be seen.
However, it is in anxiousness that the particular detail of method is awaited.
Poison needn’t come from [Another]..

 

22. Shall I?..

The unforgivable crime is soft hitting.  Do not hit at all if it can be avoided; but never hit softly.  ~Theodore Roosevelt

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Of course.. how else were you to find me?

It is a crime, or so he whispered..
That delicately cross, unwavering, unnerving little voice of substance.. in which plagues me; by the bated breath..

It is a moment of peace, stolen in valiant acquiescence.
A frustration, for which the circling monotony grappled with a naive sense of.. bewilderment?

But, to what do I owe the honor of such a malicious infestation of sunshine and tolerance?

To whom, Dear, shall I present such a fallacy of rosy cheeks and glinting callousness; masqueraded? Basked in chartreuse glory?

Shall I; even? What say you?

20. Illusion..

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You were warned, little one..

There is a moment, when that insignificant sound plays along the silence, that your heart rambles within its cage. A moment, perhaps fleeting, in which things appear as shaded in velvet as the first waves of passion to bite the flesh.. it passes by with gasping illusion, though.

Blasphemy is deranged in its mentality of being rectified by your silence. It is a jaded fear that guides the soul, when all the lights have listlessly faded beyond a shred of recognition. It is a moment where your breath is profoundly stolen by a mere glance, and you find yourself staring into the Abyss. Fervently in prayer that it would rise up, stare back, and swallow you in the entirety of your being.


There are few things that can create a void, of desolate lands, (quickly) as someone stripping the mentality all my own. Twisting it, infecting it, and manipulating it into a creation of such retribution that it begs for a prowess it cannot be given. Few things that will strike a blow so shocking, that tangled tresses mask a barrage of lacking confidence, as one to toy with strings..knowing nothing of their estranged attachments..

A Fool will know Another..I am well versed..