Ever listened to the sound of your own heart breaking? 'S a lot like crystal in that respect. That same defamed noise of something pretty being made ugly.
Only along with it is a ripping feeling, I feel me ripping on the inside, soft and wet and red everywhere until all I have left to hold is my own blood in my two cupped hands.
All that's left.
I'm an idiot. I must be. I'm alone.
I'll always be alone.
I am the antagonist, not the hero. I am neither damsel nor street smart, I am neither noble nor upbeat. I am the dark thing in the throne of my own pain.
I am the smoke the rings everything until all you can smell is my burning soul, and the rare spices that were once my smile ignite and smolder to try and seduce you.
It's never forever though, is it? I am the embodiment of fleeting; and all I seek is an eternity.
A simple quest for a broken heart and bit of fractured imperfection that breathes.
All of me is pieces and we dream of a time when we were me, and us was I. But everything ends, huh? Everything ends and eventually snaps and dies in my careful hands. Everything. Everything. Why are all of the everythings mine?
Pomegranate juice is sweet and bitter in my mouth, staining my lips with colors that I used to bleed but don't anymore. It sticks to my fingers to be licked off and away and swallowed where my dusty stomach remembers blurrily times when everything was wet and red on the inside instead of the out, and all I cupped in my hands was my own smiling face that dreamed.
I woke up. And I bled and bled until I was dry but I did not die. I will never die. I will never stop, I will just grind on, tired and dry and aching as I grind myself to dust, afraid of what I might wake up to be. Afraid I might wake up as that and be happy to be that. Seeking blood in other places to replace what was taken from me.
I'll close my eyes and see twilight where I stand and wait until I'm a stranger to me again, praying for a wind to blow my dusty remains away to nothing on the outside. Just like the inside of me.
Maybe one day I'll blow past your face as sentient grit and kiss your cheekbone the way I always wanted to. And you'll never, ever know.
Words and angst copywrited to Stacy Parker and the glory that entails.