1M&1

“Hold my hand,” he said to me.

“Be the granite foundation on which I can lie and stare at the sparkled sky,

The dark lines like ribbons across my thighs that give me such release.

Be the return of a distraction from a life spent under the thistly wing of a vampire bat.”

We are standing in the flickering gas lights on a park path, chilled by the green moonlight which mask him like the desolate Phantom.

“Hold my hand,” he told me.

“Engulf me like the dead sea

Salt, cling to my skin like the desperate claws of a child

Suffocate me in the hydrogen peroxide of your breath.”

I am twelve, a couple months. He, sixteen and light years ahead with long hairs on his forearms and dark freckles that splash like acid across his wolfish, effeminate complexion.

“Take my hand,” he demanded.

“Tell me you will devote every particle of your essence to my philosophies,

And carry me home tonight when I become the full bottle of whisky I had drained;

Trade saliva with me for the first time like the burning kiss of the alcohol which has left me so goddamn empty.”

I can smell his spit from here, I can trace the hazy outline of his ginger stubble from here, I can breathe in the sharp smell of his cologne so that it splices my unquenched throat, so pieces of glass pile at the bottom of my gut.

“Take my hand, take my hand, just take my hand, just take it!” he snarled,

“Or my eyes will ooze something like that of the man who makes up a half of you.

You’ll smell the ozone electrodes of my desire for your purified body

Like you could sense a storm rolling over the hills. Looming, bristling.”

I am trembling, my knees knocking, my teeth chattering, whispering words that this is a true man, this is the only man, he’s all I will ever have and he loves me too.

I am wearing nothing much more than knee high socks and plaid dress, ribbons in my hair caught in the naked branches of the pine trees that guard him on either side.

In determined silence, I take his hand,

My lips are sealed, sticky with the grey honey of his words

And in this instant, this moment which dictates the most horrible of first,

I don’t know

That the zeal of his tongue picking out my teeth isn’t a justice, a privilege granted onto me, the grateful citizen of his metaphysical propaganda

But rather

It is the taste

The taste

The taste

The taste of a million girls before me.

Their shrill screams and defeated grunts and silent pleas –

As they all hold each other, linked at the pinkies, quivering,

Dragging Lucifer out from the pit

A million young girls, a million Eves, a million brown dotted does, sacrificed to his cause.

A million girls.

A million girls and one.

(x)
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Hera

She is a deity, queen of all and temptress of nothing. She is as hollow as a sere pine tree, rooted in her traditionalism and stultified by the careless cataclysms induced by an unfaithful, obsolete husband. She watches warily as her peacocks of vanity mimic her now deceased grandeur in a moving dance of shiny feathers. She coaxes her heart, which once burned bright with internalized rage, into a cold fractured stone of severe heartbreak. Her youth is withered and her sorrow holds her in a chokehold,  as she is ravaged by a black hurricane of indifference.

But beware, because underneath the arid depression she wears like a cracked mask is her true self: a brilliant quasar, made up of everything she ever tucked away. Her thin voice calls out into the misty mess of humanity.  Her ravenous hunger for truth is bursting through her galactic force of will, which she forged in the dying embers of her ancient heart. Don’t let her childish stubbornness fool you: her rage thrives at the center of her ‘hollow’ existence, more destructive than any weak myths that swirl around the obstinate idea of her. She will do anything – and everything – to achieve her own happy ending… even if it means ripping herself apart in the process.

Prologue

The sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone street was enough to make her miss home even more dearly than before. Gloved hands fidgeting in her lap, she stared out the grey window which was spotted with raindrops, as she pondered whether coming to West End was insensitive or simply foolish.

As the carriage came to a sudden stop, her troubled heart jolted as if a thin cold dagger had pierced her chest. She ignored the nausea that followed as she shoved open the carriage door, her bright auburn hair flying about as she stepped clumsily off the black cab. She surveyed the daunting apartment before her, the moist air tasting impure and thick in her mouth despite the heavy rain.

She knew in her heart that this visit was going to be complex. But she did not trust her heart – it always assumed the worst of people.

Continue reading “Prologue”

Germs

The peculiar sensation of being sick.

Now, I realize that the topic of malady has been suggested and turned and simmered and digested enough by everyone, especially for anyone currently in the northern hemisphere. But I do believe that if I don’t effectively purge my system of the somber and miscellaneous reaction to feeling ill, I’m pretty sure I just might explode into a horrible, comical, quite heated rant that will never end.

Continue reading “Germs”

Why

I keep my head down when I walk.
I don’t know if it’s to avoid people’s eyes, fearing confrontation.
I don’t know if it’s because I want to watch where I place my booted feet in case I step on something unpleasant.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m in a sombre mood and I comically want to act like it.
I don’t know if it’s because there is something I look for in the ground instead of gazing whimsically at the sky.
I keep my head down when I walk.
One thing’s for sure- my steps are numbered.