OneVioletRose

Your oblivion is mesmerising I scrutinise it intently with callous expectations. Wrongdoings fascinate me bringing life to these bloodless veins; an opportunity to prove I am not merely a loyal slave placing you on a pedestal higher than you deserve.

The direction that is most appealing Is always the one that shouldn’t be taken - We all learn from our mistakes                (First mistake, looking;                Second mistake, finding) And lose the will to grow. We’ve come so far over unseen hurdles Climbing through the baggage from lifetimes ago, But still stuck outside the homely surface. Draw a map to find your way inside, Beneath starry skies - cloudless - Slipping on the rocky surface. Then we’ll stumble down sandy shores Helpless hands lost in night time gloom, Impractical motions, disastrous consequences, Your mood swings are more than I can sta

She spares a word for yesterday carefully chosen from a list of things she wants to be known as. “Libertine.” Intellectually she found herself in chains describing her aspirations forever the same and recalling memories of similar days where hope is transcended by precarious desire. “Titillating.” If he had a nuance of her pollution, a notion of nature’s impurity, he’d extract his virtuous perversion and revisit that of homely beauty. If she only knew of the pleasures of stability.

My endorphins are your amphetamine pumping up and spilling out of this reckless romance. You have little time for ketamine racing through sensation faster than you stumble into my room and out again, half finished, bearing twice the smile you had this morning. It’s almost like I’m on ecstasy asphyxiated by my clothes with your tongue inflating my lungs further than they can go. (My rib cage is only small enough to contain my deflated heart.) You find my weakness is with alcohol that hauls me down grimy ditches with no intention of regaining control.

You’ve shown me what hope is yet all I’ve bestowed on you is despair; I grip its roots with wretched fingers in fearful avoidance of your manhood and the legacy it’s vowed to procure. You whisper rape as if it were a love song and meet my eyes to confirm the melody humming along to my protests. We’ve danced to this tune before and I’ve tired of waltzing with your ghost. You take reign over my kingdom thieving my freedom so easily. You menace me by thrusting deeper through barriers set by past lovers whose embrace I gave into equally. “You speak to me of poetry,” you roar teeth grinding to the

Snow leaves falling slow by open caskets, bearing tomorrow's children.

Evening cold decays the moment, sending shivers. Burning bold, delays don't compliment his pride, and so it withers. Spot on assessment reading signs of distress, she rushes close for the kiss and warmth. It's a small concession, given the circumstance. This moment is a year, perhaps, or maybe more in passing. His heart is now a stump with no feeling through and through. His limbs, lifeless extensions of the empty, senseless mess her indecision left in place of what was there. But still, somewhere underneath it is warm, and so of use to her.

Today could be any day, I won’t talk specifics. But not this day.  Not this day. In the morning, before I made him leave with the vagrants, I told him about swans. I dreamt of hiding, and everywhere I went, there he was, tall form, with a look on confusion on his face, “Raped you?” How odd, then, to now be in a safe place, to have a real bed. I am not the girl whose head he shaved. I am a hard stone.  I am no longer interested in soft curves.  I am made of angles. I shot him twice and his eyes closed, head fell back, and his hat fell off. I thought of apples and arrows and I said, “Your hat fell of

The sand has changed to mud, the mud to flame.  There are only whispers of trees, ghosts of the forests that were.  Husks of huts jut from blood-soaked hillocks like broken teeth, and the screams of children haunt the countryside.  She has moved from the glass deserts to Hell's rice lands.  For this she has signed away her rights, her name, her soul.  This is what it is to become a soldier, a sister, an artist: for war is as much an art form as it is a way of life, and those who live it live by it and for it and through it.  She doesn't remember the times long ago when she did not hate or kill anyone.  But it's not that she can't remember, sh