Writing 01.21.2003

[p3rfuk3ed]

[COLOR=crimson]just to make this clear, this is not something i wrote, my friend Wrote it and i really liked it so i decided i would post it on ob, The person that made this is ×braceletwhore×..What do u think?[/COLOR]


she lies faceless in the coffin-shaped bathtub, letting the freezing hot shower beat down on her naked stomach and legs and breasts and opened hands. steam is pulled into droplets on mildewed mirrors and porcelain walls, running in rivulets to collect in the hollows of her body until she is annointed with the rust and mold of mundane urban life. this is the time when she obtains her deadly calm, as she towels her skin perfumed and clean, when each footfall is heavy on the carpet like another trembling chord in the song she breathes. this is when the seconds are locked like amber, as her eyelids are heavy and her look is pure tragedy. not melodrama, but the true sadness that only comes with knowing that nothing else is left. and these water drops on the skin of her face and her hands and her body only serve to burn this stillness deeper into her sense of self. soon it will consume her, leaving only a walking shell, a waking dream that is inescapable.

and her heartbeat is trapped in fingertips tap tap tapping on the curved body of the guitar, in the faint wavering variations as the strings sing a slowly dying melody. these moments are fingers dancing on the neck of a guitar; these seconds are pearls glowing softly in candlelight. sweet music fills her ears and echoes inside of her head, music only she can hear, music she dances to, sings to, sleeps to. this music is the soundtrack when she makes love to empty air, spreads her legs for shiny promises and gilded lies. her self-worth lies abandoned on a deserted highway; her sense of self-preservation was buried long ago. she's self-destructive and beautiful, dying in a flash of light. it's an irresistable scent that draws those who feed on sorrow like moths to a flame. so she'll paint her lips deep-red and full, and dab her wrists with the smell of honey and cinnamon and exotic spicy smoke. breathe where her heart beats so close beneath her skin, where her blood races at her neck, her temples, her wrists, and you will smell what a little girl longed to be - sandalwood golden and jasmine sweet, perfect in every possible way. so she'll bow her head and go down on her knees for you: it's the power you've always wanted, and she's everything you've ever dreamed. her calm is a shield that numbs her heart, so she forgets the pain of humiliation, so she ignores the price of absolute submission. soon enough this numbness will spread.



she is so subtly sexy in the blue monitor light, jeans riding the edge of her hipbones, shirt leaving the curve of her lower back and the soft trench of her spine open to any eyes that care to see. long sleeves are essential, here; she'll hide the flaws and flaunt what she's got: curves and short, curling hair, large deep eyes and chiseled collarbones. she's tempting her death to her, you see, calling for someone to let her out of this life. she doesn't mind dying alone and in pain; there are plenty willing to answer that call, to lead her off this mortal coil with a knife or a rope or a gun, or simple fists and lots of hate. and she would welcome the oblivion.


but these images have been used before, and they've become cliché.
words turn to dust in my mouth, at my fingertips, and the click click of keys erases any original thought left in my mind.
and i cannot tell this story right.
this hissing, this empty air, this lack of connection is driving me insane.
This static is burning in my ear and the tears are burning into my eyes and i have nothing left.
there is nothing left behind these eyes, in these hands, between these lips.
my stories have all been told.

[Sui Generis]

Besides the whole cap. issue its good. I like it. Most present tense stories really can't hold my attention, I don't know it normally just doesn't sound right to me, but...this one was different. I liked it, alot.