i love how everything i write never takes any shape of anything and just ends up being a really long character intro.
we lost her life. they buried her, half-naked and half-alive, curled up, so very small, with her sister clutching her wounds. she screamed, frantically, watching the dried blood cling to her fingers as if it was still wet and running. always the almost-heroic one, even now, when the dirt came sprinkling down onto her shoulders, filled in between her legs, she didn't budge. she spit out handfuls of soil to yell for help, but no one did. they stared at her and shook their heads and dumped another shovel on top of the spectacle. and her deceased loved one laid in between her forehead and her palms, limp and rotting, with the same expression in her fiery eyes as there always had been.
the loose ends of this story were never tied up, but it's been rumored that my one true love was spotted in russia, shoulders held high, perfect posture for a street corner, playing dazzling white grand pianos that had been lit on fire. she sat in front of this horrible spectacle and played chopin and vivaldi while the deadly flames inched down the varnish, eating away at every string and hammer. they say her fingers are dark red and bubbling, overflowing with scar tissue. they say she is beautiful, but she is not dead.
they tell me there are photographs of her, rising out of the sea with six fingers and eleven toes, and humming bird's wings, gesturing wordless towards the direction a sailor needs to venture home. they say she is mystical, but she is not dead.
and me? i believe souls are lined up in empty rings around the sun,
and tossed in to support it's ever-hungry engine. she is a cinder, and yes, she is dead.
so, this woman, she had a charcoal heart singed by every little white lie, every "love" affair. she sat with a note pad and counted backwards the number of little jogs her friends took to jump onto the band wagons, divided them in half exactly, and went on her way, making sure she stayed behind. her hair was coral reefs and candy apples and her eyes were crystal castles. she was fascinated with the new generation. she congregated babies together and listened to them whine. she attempted to learn how they speak.
they know, she said. they have eternal knowledge, that will fade here on earth. like draping a shadowy veil over their shoulders, she said, they lose their ability to speak in tongues, to tell us where they come from. dragons spit fire into her castle eyes and she said, those who rip apart the veil, those who can remember, the ones who still know, who could tell us anything and everything if we only tried to listen
they are classified insane and tossed into the burning fire to support our every-hungry ignorance.
she spoke this all with the plump fairy lips i can never quite get right. inside their boundaries, her teeth darted left and right, yellowed and dying, but she was still beautiful. you could outline a steep hill down her nose, yet she was still beautiful. she sat with a mug of strong-smelling, clear alcohol and pinched her ski slope nose as she gulped, her candy coral hair flying past her shoulders, stuck to the sweat always forming on her forehead, her shoulders... and then, she would gather her followers and say, what good is preparing for this death in this life? do you advocate your own death wish? paradise is not in death, but here on this earth, my beautiful earth. you have seen the horrors of those have seen this heaven and hell, the endless fear of those scarred people who are blessed to remember, and yet you pray to your coward lord god who fears your own power. you humble yourselves before him and he comforts himself shakingly, that he has convinced the lot of you that his power could overcome your own.
she exhaled loudly, twisting a lock around, and around, her long, nimble, but ever so pale finger.
she stood and walked away, long strides, wobbling on bare feet, an avalanche waiting to happen.
they all followed her, like sheep drawn to slaughter. no one knew what would happen. no one ever could have guessed.
and i loved her.
they say she is the anti christ.
and they say they see her wandering, bald and naked, through the forest in the early mornings, bleeding from the eyes, her fingers severed, her collarbones poking through the thin flesh covering them. they say she is limitless, spreading like a gas across the sky, her molecules feeling no urge to bond. she laces her skinny limbs through the notches in a child's spine and with a sickening snap, breaks them smoothly in half. their misery, she said, had only just begun. she licks the blood off of her cheekbones and strides away, stirring up the mossy leaves lining the groud. they say she is twisted like the bark on a thunderstruck tree, blackened and smelling foul, but she is not dead.
the son of the devil could never die.
she held me tight and combed her fingers through my hair, resting them one by one down a line on my cheek and she whispered
love is an illusion, but i am happily living our lie. bedroom talk? not in the least.
she was the ultra violet in a world of black and white, and the next stage in our human evolution. she was her own genus of her own subspecies, and she rotated around her own little system
throwing the converted souls into her burning sun of doubt. she sang to them in some sick language, flapping her razor tongue until all hope was lost. she patronized, she symbolized, she would spread your bones out clockwise and crush every inch of you and powder the ground in what was once named your hope. she was a brilliant talent and a sick, evil villain. but what were we to do about it?
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