bionicfemme

The city has vision and horizons have vanishing points. When a word's been said repeatedly, it loses its meaning. Youve been spoken for too many times to hold a concrete definition.

There have been too many memories and too many women, so much that it forms not a montage but a synthaesia of sight and pain and lust and rhythm. Youve been through a war and back, treading heavy black boots in mire and urban landscapes destroyed a thousand years past.

Heartbeats heavy and black drum across the line that exists between your dark eyelashes and your skin at night, all charcoal and honey-doll. Hush now and shut your eyes, so much that you dont have to think of partnered showers resulting in shampoo Mohawks or the insane father that begs you to spend Christmas in a death house with him, a few encapsulated frozen corpses, and his several friends involved in Cryogenic rebellion.

They preserve bodies and leave nothing on the surface but psychic ripples and the cries of a thousand pilfered souls from heaven. You dont want to be like them; what they do is worse than murder, to those already dead.

You want, you want, you want more than anything the silence for once, the fireplace and the silence. The sex and the silence. The tongue running along the earlobe and the silence.

Silence to drown out the voices of the living, affection so genuine it anesthetizes. A charm box of trinkets and mementos left behind. Taffeta made of shadows and promises kept under disco balls. A whisper, a glance, the brush of lips against a throat. Tell the tales of serpents and goddesses to those whove never left home.

Anything, anything, to be a pretty thing kept.