luccipop
Angelic as the angels scream as every human learns to pray inside their dreams. Everyone has sin inside of them, like a sadistic trait. Satan knows. He lives off our torment, lives off our smirks when we kill someone. While God boils at his throne like a cauldron over flowing. We're not sanctity, we portray our sins. We defile our sacredness and set alight holiness.
God knows. We're devil-like to the bone.
A variety of colours and shapes. Mystical and mesmerising. Half of them may not exist, and the other half, you'd never think to see. They lie behind the costumes and the actors, amongst with the scenery and the stage crew. To us they are just objects, but to them, they are the much needed, and important, props.
Intricate swirls. Tiny threads of gold and silver. Delicate to the touch. Soft with the stroke, of my slender fingers. The frame was pretty. The picture inside, prettier. It was me, of course. My slender fingers cradle the frame, each bone, can be seen.
Every colour drained from soul. Bleeding blue, down to the scarring crimson brown. I was dying. It was too hot for me to bare. My once pastel pink skin, now laid a mess on the floor, like melted ice cream all salmon and peach.
"Another glass M'am?"
I sigh and shake my head, loosely. Still fingering a full glass in my hand. I wasn't in the mood to do anything, and the only reason I went to this stupid formal dinner was for my sister. She wanted back up in case the plan of seducing the host of this party went haywire. Though now I'm left alone while she spends the night in glamour. Perfect. I don't really like her to be honest, but I guess she just wanted me here so she can brag.
I sigh again, and take a sip of the sparkling champagne.
Even the champagne can sparkle more than me.
"One minute left, keep cooking!" I must keep going, I want to win. I have to win. I'll make mom proud, I'll make them all fell accomplished from me. If I lose, I go back to being an average student, and a normal daughter. A nobody to my mom.
"Stop cooking!" I remove my apron and look at my masterpiece. Please, impress my mom. And I leave it there to be judged, with my apron next to it, that says in pink glitter: 'Lawson's Daughter.'
A field of thorns wasn't enough for you. You wanted more, like the spoilt person you are. So I got my revenge. Dragged you by your hair, through the field. A day you'll never forget. You have the scars as reminders.
I hide you in the trunk of my car, like I hide my secrets in the closet. No one will find you. After the first time, you screamed! Silly mistake, but that was easily covered up with a snip of the tongue. Makes a nice object to sell. Two weeks you've been in there, and you are not coming out. You're just added to my pile of secrets, all bloody, like the trunk of my car.
A second, to make it. You dash in a hurry. Jumping, and leaping. Past the horrific crowds of screaming and pushing. You manage to get across, dancing, and smiling. Quick, and light, and nimble on your toes. You fly overhead, like a fairy or an angel. However you did it, your at the front of the line. The first one to get: a glimpse of Santa Claus.
Everything is dressed with another layer. Everything hides what they really are, in a gown of abyss. No one knows what's underneath, and sometimes we can not identify what's on top. However, all we know is ourselves. We know we are human, we know our own traits. As long as you know you are a good person underneath your gown, why can we all not trust that everything else is good too?
load more entries