you are sixteen when your decorate her casket with dirt.
you are violent. you are selfish. you are cruel. and though your bones rot with the cruelty of winter, you find the hole in your heart growing. you taste the salt of your tears as they decorate your ivory cheeks; and you feel a pain that sinks through your bloodstream. it is hot, and you shiver from your own discomfort. it singes the corpses of your bones; burns your fingertips and is so unfamiliar that it spreads through you like a wildfire.
your third eldest sister was twenty years old when she withered into her bones and became a fragment of your discarded memories.
it was the first time you'd ever experienced loss; and it burned a hole in your chest that you selfishly covered with your own sin.
you are sixteen when he covers you on your itchy sheets.
you are violent. you are selfish. you are cruel. the winter of your bones gnaws at him, at his warmth, and his kindliness. he stinks of pine; and his fingernails are clean and his knuckles unbruised. he is careful, he is kind, and he is gentle. you fight with released claws; but he yields to you like a dog yields to it's owner.
you pierce his skin with your teeth, and he yelps.
"how can you be so cruel?" he cries, before disappearing into the heat of mid-summer; leaving you clumsy and crumpled in your sheets.
you are barely still sixteen when he takes the worn corners of your jaw between the calloused bends of his weathered fingers. he presses his lips to yours so forcefully that it turns your lips white, like the winter of your stale blood, and he doesn't taste sweet. he tastes like the grit between your eyelids, and he tastes like the frost of winter.
he yields to you, too. but he is different. he is a child of snow, a child of winter; captured within the hooks of your jealous thumbs. his hands are selfish as they trace the roadmaps of your veins, track your cartography to his skull. he fills the winter between your ribs with a fearsome fire and singes your selfish fingertips.
you leave traces of your wild carnations like an oil painting along the slender slope of his arched back.
he becomes your canvass, and for once you fill the void of your dilapidated heart. for once you don't mind the fire that fills your bones. for once you don't care for equality, or loneliness, or the insignia's you'd etched into the wooden desk.
he leaves you in the morning, crumpled into your itchy sheets, with watermarks on your ivory cheeks. the winter within you seizes you once more; and you remain a child of the snow.
you are violent. you are selfish. you are cruel.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Summer
seven am was full of heartbreak.
you are eight years old.
you sit behind the oak door in an ivory nightgown your mother bought for you with weighted coins. your purple knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the grit that settled between the floorboards. you scrub relentlessly at the spaces between your bruised knuckles, biting your tongue in preventing your curiosity from escaping.
your eldest sister returns to the oak door in the birth of the new morning. her fingers shake as they grip the foundation of the door frame, each movement more hesitant then the next. she reeks of sex and sin, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his bruises. her brilliant blue pools are darker, and a hand flutters to her throat when she notices her you on the floor.
"you can not be foolish, sister." she lectures, punctuated fingertips drifting to the curve of your plump, red cheek. "you must be prepared and you must always be brave."
eight pm is full of joy.
you are eleven years old.
you sit behind the oak door in a knitted, purple sweater your sister bought for you with weighted coins. your rosy knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the product of the pavements of the schoolyard. you scrub relentlessly at the faces of your blued fingernails, biting your tongue in preventing your opinions from escaping.
your second eldest sister returns to the oak door in the dead of the night. her fingers are confident and brash as they grip the foundation of the door frame, each movement more erratic then the next. she radiates the perfume of sex and sin, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his shadows of his fingers. her brilliant green pools are overjoyed, and a hand flutters to her stomach when she notices you on the floor.
"you must be agreeable, sister." she sings, brash fingertips floating to the hollow of your thick, shortened neck. "you must be happy and you must always do as your told."
twelve pm is full of content.
you are fifteen years old.
you sit behind the oak door in an oversized, army jacket you bought for yourself with weighted coins. your grayed knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the nights spent within the hearth of the store. you scrub relentlessly at the lines that decorate your hands, biting your tongue in preventing your anger from escaping.
your third eldest sister returns to the oak door in the refreshing daze of afternoon. her fingers are quiet and careful as they caress the foundation of the door frame, each movement more placid then the next. she releases the accessory of sex and love, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his kisses. her brilliant chocolate pools are calm, and a hand flutters to her heart when she notices you on the floor.
"you are perfect, sister." she murmurs, delicate fingertips floating to the dimple of your forehead. "you must be patient and it will find you. and it will not be selfish, or cruel."
you are eight years old.
you sit behind the oak door in an ivory nightgown your mother bought for you with weighted coins. your purple knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the grit that settled between the floorboards. you scrub relentlessly at the spaces between your bruised knuckles, biting your tongue in preventing your curiosity from escaping.
your eldest sister returns to the oak door in the birth of the new morning. her fingers shake as they grip the foundation of the door frame, each movement more hesitant then the next. she reeks of sex and sin, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his bruises. her brilliant blue pools are darker, and a hand flutters to her throat when she notices her you on the floor.
"you can not be foolish, sister." she lectures, punctuated fingertips drifting to the curve of your plump, red cheek. "you must be prepared and you must always be brave."
eight pm is full of joy.
you are eleven years old.
you sit behind the oak door in a knitted, purple sweater your sister bought for you with weighted coins. your rosy knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the product of the pavements of the schoolyard. you scrub relentlessly at the faces of your blued fingernails, biting your tongue in preventing your opinions from escaping.
your second eldest sister returns to the oak door in the dead of the night. her fingers are confident and brash as they grip the foundation of the door frame, each movement more erratic then the next. she radiates the perfume of sex and sin, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his shadows of his fingers. her brilliant green pools are overjoyed, and a hand flutters to her stomach when she notices you on the floor.
"you must be agreeable, sister." she sings, brash fingertips floating to the hollow of your thick, shortened neck. "you must be happy and you must always do as your told."
twelve pm is full of content.
you are fifteen years old.
you sit behind the oak door in an oversized, army jacket you bought for yourself with weighted coins. your grayed knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the nights spent within the hearth of the store. you scrub relentlessly at the lines that decorate your hands, biting your tongue in preventing your anger from escaping.
your third eldest sister returns to the oak door in the refreshing daze of afternoon. her fingers are quiet and careful as they caress the foundation of the door frame, each movement more placid then the next. she releases the accessory of sex and love, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his kisses. her brilliant chocolate pools are calm, and a hand flutters to her heart when she notices you on the floor.
"you are perfect, sister." she murmurs, delicate fingertips floating to the dimple of your forehead. "you must be patient and it will find you. and it will not be selfish, or cruel."
Friday, October 18, 2013
Winter
you are born with a cavity in your chest.
a hole where your heart should be. you decorate your thin, blued lips with roses, and you plump your hollowed cheeks with sun-haze. but it can not cure the winter of your bones; the corpses that dance between your ribs. because you are born with caskets tied to your ankles, and anchors tethered to your limbs that drag you further, and further, and further until you drown.
you inscribe your words into wood; bonded to the collective darkness that bandages your heart as if vulnerability is your wound. sometimes, there is too much heat. your bruised fingertips are singed by the fire that blooms from their chests, and you find yourself recluse again. an oddity among mankind.
you are born with the snow. you are born and offered to winter, as a newborn with scrambling limbs and muffled screams. you are cruel as a child; you pick at scabs and count the undertones of your hampered breathing patterns as a remedy for the violence that is bred within your bones. you grow into a lonely thing.
you are a wild child born to women with crossed hands and bowed heads; a brevity of confidence where there had once been none. you refuse to be of them, shake their stories from your skull, erasing the lullabies they'd planted in your heart. you wanted a cacophony - the brilliance of dysphoria as it paints it's way across your membrane. in the heart of the night, you crawl under itchy sheets and promise that you will empty your veins of them: refuse to be restrained and softened into a peach that is made impure by a man's hands.
you are the divided myth of a broken household, a fragment of the father you never knew and the ghost of a mother who had long since passed. you are violent, you are cruel, and you are selfish. you are not bound by your bruised knees or your dirty knuckles.
a hole where your heart should be. you decorate your thin, blued lips with roses, and you plump your hollowed cheeks with sun-haze. but it can not cure the winter of your bones; the corpses that dance between your ribs. because you are born with caskets tied to your ankles, and anchors tethered to your limbs that drag you further, and further, and further until you drown.
you inscribe your words into wood; bonded to the collective darkness that bandages your heart as if vulnerability is your wound. sometimes, there is too much heat. your bruised fingertips are singed by the fire that blooms from their chests, and you find yourself recluse again. an oddity among mankind.
you are born with the snow. you are born and offered to winter, as a newborn with scrambling limbs and muffled screams. you are cruel as a child; you pick at scabs and count the undertones of your hampered breathing patterns as a remedy for the violence that is bred within your bones. you grow into a lonely thing.
you are a wild child born to women with crossed hands and bowed heads; a brevity of confidence where there had once been none. you refuse to be of them, shake their stories from your skull, erasing the lullabies they'd planted in your heart. you wanted a cacophony - the brilliance of dysphoria as it paints it's way across your membrane. in the heart of the night, you crawl under itchy sheets and promise that you will empty your veins of them: refuse to be restrained and softened into a peach that is made impure by a man's hands.
you are the divided myth of a broken household, a fragment of the father you never knew and the ghost of a mother who had long since passed. you are violent, you are cruel, and you are selfish. you are not bound by your bruised knees or your dirty knuckles.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Sting
The creature murmurs their defeat as he whimpers through the dinned streets.
There are welts on his pelt; savage lines cut cruelly across his pale skin, embellished with the amber thickness of his own poison, as it seeps down the concave of his hollow, ivory cheek. He wears them proudly, like trophies thrown upon him like a victor: because that's what he was. A victor. He relished in the secrets pried between their warm bones: melted his skin to theirs and pried them apart with bloodied fingers, until they were a pool of their own misfortune. They whispered their secrets to him, as well as their mercies – they're prayers mumbled to unforgiving ears in the breadth of the forgotten evenings. But he does not pity them, as a wolf does not pity it's prey.
Twin limbs exude weariness as he scrambles in the shadows of the dimly lit corridors; haunted by the brick walls as they enclose him, press his flesh from wall to wall until he almost screams. He is delirious with his own exhaustion, with his own joy, that he tumbles about – his fangs weak as they pierce against ivory and crumble miserably.
It was his own wrong doing. His own curiosity brought it's violent fingers across the arch of his back and scolded him, left imprints on his skin that marred the impossible beauty of his charred face. The slant of his defined jaw was highlighted by the maroon liquid that rested there, and he wore it as a warrior wore his paint to war – with a cruel sense of pride. Fangs bore as he sauntered, and he thought once more of their remains: mangled, and brilliant and beautiful, and he was filled with another bout of ecstatic joy that crippled him at the hinges of his severed torso.
He loved death so wholly and so unwittingly, that he had married himself too it. He had caught his fingers with a golden band, and he had wed himself to the discrepancy of death. Unutterable vowels conjugated from his morphed lips; but all that emerged was a gurgle that decorated a laugh.
The creature stumbled onward, his weary limbs seeking comfort. His delicate ears had tended the name through proximity; had listened to it as it passed between lips of men dressed in robes, unfit to bear the plate of the man they mumbled for. They filled him with rage – marred his frail bones with discomfort, made his blood boil and blister his ghostly folds. He took to the night like a thief, pilfered names and addresses from the lips of the dying young – searched hungrily for his twinned limbs, for the half that had carved himself from his skin what felt like a thousand years prior.
Moonlit orbs fell upon the grace of an oaken door. He stumbles to it's frame – both fearful of his own inexplicable hunger as it blossomed from the winter that longed in the cage of his ribs, and overjoyed at his own inexplicable defeat, as it came to rest before the wooden frames. He was vulnerable there, vulnerable as he had not been since he was the tender age of eighteen; opted by the savagery of the wind in the winter, and the bounty of the harvest in the spring as it plundered from the snow. Curled fingers came to rest on the fringe, with a rap, rap, rap.
There was no answer.
Desperately, fingers clawed at the handle – obsidians pools cloaked in his own misery as he peered over his shoulder and into the depth of the streets, which sauntered in his peripheral like an untamed beast. Vita was no fool. Even though he had the brain of a genius and the quick hands of an assassin, he was weary with exhaustion, overcome with his own euphoric dimension, that he would be a quick slaughter in there fingertips. He pushed his forehead to the door then, as he relinquished himself to the younger boy that had danced among the snow, before he had pranced upon corpses and instead among flowers.
“Vaska.” He hissed into the grains of the door; obsidian orbs fluttering behind flushed eyelashes. The salt of her soil poisoned his jaw, draped along the crook of his arched neck and painted him a villain in the winter of the night.
“Vaska,” he called once more, a certain crack filtering into the hook of his vocals. “It's me, Vita. Vitaliy. Your brother. Your twin. Your half.”
He sprawled himself against the oak then, a picture of skin and wintered bones.
There are welts on his pelt; savage lines cut cruelly across his pale skin, embellished with the amber thickness of his own poison, as it seeps down the concave of his hollow, ivory cheek. He wears them proudly, like trophies thrown upon him like a victor: because that's what he was. A victor. He relished in the secrets pried between their warm bones: melted his skin to theirs and pried them apart with bloodied fingers, until they were a pool of their own misfortune. They whispered their secrets to him, as well as their mercies – they're prayers mumbled to unforgiving ears in the breadth of the forgotten evenings. But he does not pity them, as a wolf does not pity it's prey.
Twin limbs exude weariness as he scrambles in the shadows of the dimly lit corridors; haunted by the brick walls as they enclose him, press his flesh from wall to wall until he almost screams. He is delirious with his own exhaustion, with his own joy, that he tumbles about – his fangs weak as they pierce against ivory and crumble miserably.
It was his own wrong doing. His own curiosity brought it's violent fingers across the arch of his back and scolded him, left imprints on his skin that marred the impossible beauty of his charred face. The slant of his defined jaw was highlighted by the maroon liquid that rested there, and he wore it as a warrior wore his paint to war – with a cruel sense of pride. Fangs bore as he sauntered, and he thought once more of their remains: mangled, and brilliant and beautiful, and he was filled with another bout of ecstatic joy that crippled him at the hinges of his severed torso.
He loved death so wholly and so unwittingly, that he had married himself too it. He had caught his fingers with a golden band, and he had wed himself to the discrepancy of death. Unutterable vowels conjugated from his morphed lips; but all that emerged was a gurgle that decorated a laugh.
The creature stumbled onward, his weary limbs seeking comfort. His delicate ears had tended the name through proximity; had listened to it as it passed between lips of men dressed in robes, unfit to bear the plate of the man they mumbled for. They filled him with rage – marred his frail bones with discomfort, made his blood boil and blister his ghostly folds. He took to the night like a thief, pilfered names and addresses from the lips of the dying young – searched hungrily for his twinned limbs, for the half that had carved himself from his skin what felt like a thousand years prior.
Moonlit orbs fell upon the grace of an oaken door. He stumbles to it's frame – both fearful of his own inexplicable hunger as it blossomed from the winter that longed in the cage of his ribs, and overjoyed at his own inexplicable defeat, as it came to rest before the wooden frames. He was vulnerable there, vulnerable as he had not been since he was the tender age of eighteen; opted by the savagery of the wind in the winter, and the bounty of the harvest in the spring as it plundered from the snow. Curled fingers came to rest on the fringe, with a rap, rap, rap.
There was no answer.
Desperately, fingers clawed at the handle – obsidians pools cloaked in his own misery as he peered over his shoulder and into the depth of the streets, which sauntered in his peripheral like an untamed beast. Vita was no fool. Even though he had the brain of a genius and the quick hands of an assassin, he was weary with exhaustion, overcome with his own euphoric dimension, that he would be a quick slaughter in there fingertips. He pushed his forehead to the door then, as he relinquished himself to the younger boy that had danced among the snow, before he had pranced upon corpses and instead among flowers.
“Vaska.” He hissed into the grains of the door; obsidian orbs fluttering behind flushed eyelashes. The salt of her soil poisoned his jaw, draped along the crook of his arched neck and painted him a villain in the winter of the night.
“Vaska,” he called once more, a certain crack filtering into the hook of his vocals. “It's me, Vita. Vitaliy. Your brother. Your twin. Your half.”
He sprawled himself against the oak then, a picture of skin and wintered bones.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Afternoon
I do not dream of you anymore.
No longer do you inscribe your insignia upon my chest,
and suffocate me when I strive to breath.
You are no longer the violent vehemence of the sea,
but the fog as it dissipates between my fingertips.
No longer do I need poems,
to express how I feel.
You offered me words,
when there were none.
And I suppose I will always be thankful for that.
But you are no longer the ghoul beneath my fingernails,
or the ghost that lingers in the blinds in the morning.
I have found my own sunlight without you.
No longer do you inscribe your insignia upon my chest,
and suffocate me when I strive to breath.
You are no longer the violent vehemence of the sea,
but the fog as it dissipates between my fingertips.
No longer do I need poems,
to express how I feel.
You offered me words,
when there were none.
And I suppose I will always be thankful for that.
But you are no longer the ghoul beneath my fingernails,
or the ghost that lingers in the blinds in the morning.
I have found my own sunlight without you.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Gospel
He had never been in love. Had foolishly thought once that he had fallen in love with a girl who had troublesome eyes and a heart full of mischief, but he had been the tender age of eighteen, and when he had been shipped off to a relative war, she had forgotten him. She had watched the screens with a mild interest, a secret worry, but she had not expected him to win. She had pleasured herself with another man in the nights while he withered; and when he returned to his thinned mattress she had no interest in him. A changed man, is what she had defended herself with: excused herself from him for forever. He had sworn that he would never love again: that the burden of his withering heart was too much for any person to handle, let alone himself. He withered in his own sadness, drowned with the anchors he'd buried at the bottom of the sea, and wallowed in the bleakness and reality of his frostbitten story. Good things did not come to bad people: and so he waited, endlessly, for the day when there would be someone to make him whole. He first laid eyes on her when he was the tender age of twenty two; still impressionable and completely broken. She believed she could stitch him together, repair him and lift the world off his crooked shoulders.
'Do you love me?'
She would ask him on every occasion that his scarred features would be between her fingertips. There would be times when the answer was simple: times when he muttered an unalterable yes and pushed his lips to her own, led her to believe that he was forever endowed to her. But there were times when the answer struggled from his lips. She never blamed him. They would hide under cover of his rusted sheets, and she would ask, and he would remain absent. Not today. The inner demons swelled within him; made it impossible for him to feel anything other than regret, let the guilt bleed through his veins until he was worn dry. It was on these days that she pushed her lips to his face, softened him with the overwhelming loyalty of her love. She almost made him believe it. But he was nothing, if not a creature of habit, and the thought that somebody could make him whole again perturbed him. He was not worthy of such a pure love; and so he pushed her away, with restless fingers and marooned faces. She always returned, always came to his side: but no person can bare the thought that they are not enough, and so soon, she returned less and less, until she didn't return at all. He remembered the words that she had said in the rain once, tears streaking her golden cheeks, had them embedded in his heart:
'You don't always have to carry the weight of the world. It's alright to be happy.'
Friday, October 4, 2013
Prolific
Born with a crown carved into his chest, Thaddaeus Adonai Voltz had been egregiously born with the talent of perfection.
How arduous.
He forget the curse of his mother's Christian name by the time he had revolved eighteen thousand and twenty five times around a hysterical moon. She had perished by the blame of the Earth; had fallen victim to dirt and poison - and in all honesty, Daeus had never been quite sure how she had withered in her coffin. He'd always thought death was rather romantic until it singed his nostrils and burned his brain.
He had been genderless until he had graced air; but his birth had been nothing less of a miracle for two desperate adults.
( thaddaeus (aramaic) - matt. 10:3 - that praises or confesses. )
His knees were raw from wood: from spending hours upon hours bent on his bones with his fingers folded together, professing confessions to an ill-forgotten man who he'd pictured to sit on a throne of clouds. Daeus would never profess to his mother or father that he did not believe in such an entity: would mumble poems and prose under his breath and cross his lapel in the hope that he was convincing enough to be a blessed Christian.
It was when he was the tender age of seven that he peered between the crack of the library door. What he noticed was two bodies melded together - one that resembled his father and one of a woman. Daeus had been intrigued and confused; a pathway of veins as they protruded from flushed skin. He had been discovered, only moments later, when shoes clicked against the bitten wood: and he had been scolded with the cruelty of a belt and frostbitten words, confined to the promises of his room. It was then that he forgot God existed.
He becomes the example of his father: cruelty an addition to necessity as a fraudulent way to exponentially grow within yourself like a flower in the spring.
Born a incapable genius.
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