09-19-2017, 09:57 AM
(This post was last modified: 09-19-2017, 10:05 AM by Magnificent.)
Magnificent
She could drown in the depths of her wrong doings, if she could make the connection, if she could fully understand what was right and what was wrong. The meaning of her actions could barely grab hold in the chaos of what could be, because her inner fight dug trenches in her truths. Things she buried away in the deepest catacombs, things that sometimes longed to be freed. Untouchable though they might be, they splintered in roots far below the surface, fervently seeking light- wanting sustenance in which to take hold.
She starved them, crippled them until they rotted.
Yet they always returned, she was a stubborn plant, it comes as no surprise.
To drown, would that not be bliss?
The river rushes to her mind, just as it had pressed itself over craggy rocks and tossed its very being in splashes of white water. Those spots where it was given life, adrenaline, meeting its full potential. Where it became lethal and beautiful and intoxicating.
Just like him.
She tosses her charcoal head, blinking away from her gaze of nothingness, crooking her neck and closing her amethyst eyes. Tendrils of plummy hair spilled across her neck, hanging in limp strands as she wished the roots away, digging them from the hardened soil. Will they not just die?
He was like the river, quenching her soul and instilling life in her. She wanted him to wash her clean, to cleanse her of her evils and yet she would have never allowed him to do so. It was a conflicting and alluring pipe dream, the thought of the possibility alone intrigued her. He could be something to make her whole and new, something that let her repent just like holy water and yet she understood nothing of Christ. But if she did, she would sink beneath his surface and rise unsoiled into the sun, breaking his unmoved glassy reflection and letting him consume her.
She faded from him though, much like many childhood memories, hazy at the back of your mind. To touch him was both pain and pleasure, being so close was excruciating and why did she return to him the way she had. Why did she find him at the river and bleed herself before him? Why?
Why do they do the things they do anyways, what drives them?
It was for the best, bowing out, saying goodbye to the rapids and in a sense, goodbye to him. A silent goodbye because she whispered no such things and hinted at far less. Just gone, taking leave in the night. They were not for each other, a bittersweet truth, one that was reluctant to be lifted from the plowed soil, something that walked behind the rows. A devilish imp of a feeling and she stroked its ego, letting the devil of emotion caress her jaw as she opened her eyes to the field. Fire burned there, knobby fingers nudging coals, until she could feel nothing for him- if only for the moment.
She starved them, crippled them until they rotted.
Yet they always returned, she was a stubborn plant, it comes as no surprise.
To drown, would that not be bliss?
The river rushes to her mind, just as it had pressed itself over craggy rocks and tossed its very being in splashes of white water. Those spots where it was given life, adrenaline, meeting its full potential. Where it became lethal and beautiful and intoxicating.
Just like him.
She tosses her charcoal head, blinking away from her gaze of nothingness, crooking her neck and closing her amethyst eyes. Tendrils of plummy hair spilled across her neck, hanging in limp strands as she wished the roots away, digging them from the hardened soil. Will they not just die?
He was like the river, quenching her soul and instilling life in her. She wanted him to wash her clean, to cleanse her of her evils and yet she would have never allowed him to do so. It was a conflicting and alluring pipe dream, the thought of the possibility alone intrigued her. He could be something to make her whole and new, something that let her repent just like holy water and yet she understood nothing of Christ. But if she did, she would sink beneath his surface and rise unsoiled into the sun, breaking his unmoved glassy reflection and letting him consume her.
She faded from him though, much like many childhood memories, hazy at the back of your mind. To touch him was both pain and pleasure, being so close was excruciating and why did she return to him the way she had. Why did she find him at the river and bleed herself before him? Why?
Why do they do the things they do anyways, what drives them?
It was for the best, bowing out, saying goodbye to the rapids and in a sense, goodbye to him. A silent goodbye because she whispered no such things and hinted at far less. Just gone, taking leave in the night. They were not for each other, a bittersweet truth, one that was reluctant to be lifted from the plowed soil, something that walked behind the rows. A devilish imp of a feeling and she stroked its ego, letting the devil of emotion caress her jaw as she opened her eyes to the field. Fire burned there, knobby fingers nudging coals, until she could feel nothing for him- if only for the moment.
the space between, the wicked lies we tell
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