03-26-2017, 07:18 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. They say time is a flat circle. If it’s true, she’s in the center, and she’s laughing. It doesn’t touch her, time, not in the ways it should (the ways it should - she should be dead, god, what I’d give to have her rotting in the ground). Time slides over her, like raindrops on an oilslick. Untouched and untouchable, my corpse queen. Sometimes she looks dead – a glassiness to the eyes, see, and a sluggishness of the gait. She lacks grace – always has – and yes, sometimes she moves like she’s climbed out of a grave. (And her smile, oh - like a dead thing, a rictus on those wretched lips, yet girls fall for – fall to – it.) But looks and are are not the same, no – Chantale, she persists. She is an erratic thing, my corpse masterpiece, she slumbers and rises again like some great old god (though she is nowhere near so formidable, even in all her maddening glory). She does not know what happened, not really, only that Beqanna shook and stumbled and cried out. She slept though most of it, she doesn’t remember it, not really – a hazy idea of a figure or two, a taste of blood, the snap of a wing. But now she wakes – she rises – and she moves in the meadow, gait lurching but eyes fever-bright, the madness awake and well within her. She eyes them with her own animal cunning, an intelligence that does not befit her to discuss philosophy, but something baser – the kind of cunning that finds the sick, the needy. The kind of girls (or boys) who don’t mind the way she feels cool, like plastic. Who don’t mind being smiled at by dead things. how original a sin. |