Fingers furled underneath the arch of her back; thumbs cradled in the ridges of her hips.
Bridge-like, her torso is suspended in the air as she balances atop the crest of her head. Her thighs are bandaged about the breadth of my abdomen.
Sanguine elbows, they dig into the wooden floor, reminiscent of support beams, they underpin the entirety of her frame.
Instinctively, we fight to preserve moments in time. It is an aspect of human nature that is all-too-common. This urge to capture fragments of our existence and preserve them. Maybe this impulse is an innate feature of humankind; one that has continually manifested itself since the days of antiquity. From the aciculate lines shaped by Da Vinci, to today’s high resolution photographs; possibly meager attempts to immortalize the ever-changing. A sign of our unwillingness to change.
According to a few distinguished philosophers, I am nothing more than a continuation of related lingering memories interspersed with moments of nothingness; deadening it is, very depressing, although remarkably true.
I am no more significant than a grain of sand or a particle of dust—this I accept. I play no more an important role than a leaf on a branch or the synchronous revolutions of the sun, yet how pompous it seems to even liken my existence to that of a star, which I am surely not.
A comfort to a fool; to give such weight to something as insignificant as self. For at any given time, when I find a reason or the need to dedicate moments to remembrance, all that I am or ever was appears to me in only that—mere moments. For I am only that: a moment.
Foolish, to have life and to also think it is or is not worth living. To wake and find purpose, or not to find purpose. To wake and think myself larger than a star.
Comforts to a fool; to a fool I am a star and have always been one for as far back as I remember.
“You bitch”, black and blue,
thighs once pale as harvest moon.
Scum I am, to admire you.
For the beauty you are, sinful it seems,
to want to run my fingers along and between
your bodily seams.
See—men,
lust after you just as I do. Yet you are here, at my leisure—
a puppet on a string; my porcelain play thing.
Fragile, breakable and thin.
Wrapped in tie-dye sheets,
sweat soaked—
that sweet pseudo mix, unique;
smells like piss.
[Smirk]
The slut you are, my treat,
roped in linen sheets. Shameless,
or so I hope,
that your will breaks for me,
and all I’ll hear are soft whimpers of “fuck me”,
and errant pleas—as they grow silent,
one at a time,
one at a time.
And roll, yes, we roll,
legs spread wide, rise let rise that heaping tide.
Squeeze! Squeeze as I may.
My arms cannot steady your rhythmic sway.
The pillow cannot rid the air of what you say, but only distort…
like the silencer on a gun as it goes bang:
fug me arder,
and arder becomes carter,
and he becomes arthur, and soon you’ll
make me come,
to let me go.
Watch me go…
for these seeds I have sown.
GRETCHEN
She was under oath.
MARK
Then I guess that would be the first time
somebody’s lied under oath.
The gray
Say the gray
No meeting of you and I
Of this game I grow tired
trying to make sense
Make sense of you in respect to
Me.
Two worlds apart it seems
It feels;
A great divide
gaping and wide
Between you, you, you
Not I.
A feeling so contrived
Far from benign.
It tears us to pieces
It brings me to tears
The gray
Say the gray
what brings you here now?
No place, no space
nowhere for you to stay
(via anymeria)
Hands cupped over my knees; back rounded pointing to the sky. It is far beyond cold. The air stings as it fills my chest—it feels as though I am within inches of death. My hands have long gone numb and my toes burn at the very tips each time they brush against the fabric within my shoes. The white lines that delineate my path are now blurred. As my eyesight begins to falter I finally acknowledge that this is dangerous.
Barely able to breathe, run, much less walk, I still somehow conclude that more abusive is warranted. These masochistic tendencies of mine. To run, die and be reborn all within the same stride.
