embraceme
He was shocked at her ravaged face, completely devoid of product or life or even a shred of happiness. She used to be different -- red and gold and vibrance that reached out and caught anyone who looked at her, even from an angle. But now, the glamour was gone, replaced by purples and blues of healing bruises. And with sadness, he remembered what she was like, before him.
Our hearts were worn, rubble surrounding us on all sides like walls we could never escape from. We could hear them, the cranes, the jack hammer, the growling and groaning of demolition, forcing us to face the reality that nothing would be the same again. They weren't here to build, but to destroy.
It's this beautiful, wretched place, full of magic and mysteries where there should be glorious sunshine through planes of vaulted glass. He is here beside my like a golden king, and I pale in his presence. I find myself hoping that this is permanent, that this is something more than what I had always thought I would have. But it's too perfect, too much.
It felt like a tugging, a bobbing, a harrowing vicious love that had slipped through and cracked wide open. Brilliant and tragic, she lived for something that existed only to kill her. She loved it anyway. She loved him anyway. It killed her as surely as cancer, but she smiled in her grave, so it was worth it. To the last.
To cry or not cry when your world meets your grave is the questions she asks. He is there on the periphery, a shadow, a light, a groom with a scythe in his hand. He is real, because she can feel his breath on her neck and see his face every time she looks at her scars in the mirror. But maybe his breath is just wind, and her scars aren't really there at all.
A heart like blown glass and a gaze that shattered every last vestige of his hope was the only thing he could remember about that night. She taught him things he didn't know he didn't know. He felt like a cad, looking back, because all he could see were those big brown eyes and the innocence she was trying to hide. Innocence he used and discarded and said, "stay hidden, I have no use for that."
I miss the gritty texture of his skin. The hard stones that were his eyes and the palms of his hands, scraping away like sandpaper on velvet. We miss and love the things that hurt us. He carved out a soul for me in a place that was soft and gooey and unused to pressure. It hurt -- of course it did. But his knife became an extension of him just as I was the product.
A beautiful face set in curlicues of granite and sandstone that has been washed and abused by time and hard hands. They met on the canals, pretending that the water wasn't black and dirty. She was supposed to save his soul. Today, you can still see their bones, pressed like fossils into the walls. It's something like history.
She was a dryad, flitting through the woods with bare feet, her toes curling into the soft mud. People didn't notice her. She was plain-faced with long bark-coloured hair. They didn't see her, but she saw them. She witnessed everything. Everything she saw, hiding behind her eyes, until one day she him, and she wanted to gouge them out. Beauty does that I guess.
I've always looked at the world in a peculiar way. It seems that as I age the divide between us and them grows ever larger. Walking amongst us I can't find happiness, joy, some mutual influence towards goodness. With them, however, there is an inalienable sentiment, some glorious grace that I cannot define in human terms. But alas, the divide remains. They are them, we are us, and therein lies my downfall.
load more entries