04-08-2017, 04:04 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. The girl is an ember, a fire, and my corpse masterpiece is cold. Moth to flame might be the obvious metaphor, but she is not a thing that burns easily, so that’s not right (ah, and with her, what is right? Such aberrance made flesh). She is bold, this flame of a girl, and her eyes are bolder, they sear into her and she shivers from it. Shivers, and grins, the smile unfurling on her face like some terrible flag. Like knows like and strange knows strange, loves it, craves it. Immediately she wants to touch her, to acquaint herself with the warmth (let her be burned, scorched), with the curves and secrets this wandering woman promises. But touching too quick makes them worry – she knows this – so she doesn’t. Not yet. Instead she watches, with those horrible eyes of hers – feverish and glassy, but cunning – and she tilts her head, slightly. Considering. “Hello,” she says, the word a purr, then “you’re staring.” Which isn’t unexpected – she is beautiful, in a wrong sort of way, a thing poured from plastic, wax-cool. She is perfection personified, and in doing this it’s cycled back around, the lack of flaws makes her unnerving, somehow less beautiful. Further reason to stare, of course, is the pure strangeness of her, the lurch to her gait, the lolling tilt of her head. And besides – she’s staring, too. Her gaze stabbing knife-sharp into the brown curves of her, weird and wanting. how original a sin. |