(no subject)
I'm cold.
It's always so damn cold here. A deep cold. Like someone has injected you with ice water. And I'm sore.
And haunted.
Half remembered ghosts of desires dance in front of me. Mocking me with their indifference.
A little girl with braids and ribbons used to light candles for the ghosts that got lost in her room. They made her cold. But still she sang them lullabies and in hushed tones would whisper them stories of cracked bones and saving lights. And the ghosts would dance around her and whisper tales of their own-- icy words that snowed softly down all around the little girl, so that she could roll them up and pack them tight against her bed to make a cold place where the ghosts could sleep, nestled comfortably atop their own chilly stories.
The ghosts devoured her shadow one day so they could take its place and never be away from her. Her soft words ensnared them so that they hovered constantly over her, and when she breathed they could sneak inside and envelope her to croon soft words of their own. The cold they brought with them became a part of her as well, and soon she did not notice the creeping chill that settled in the very ends of her braids, because the ghosts were so intermeshed with her that to step along without their wake made dissonant piano chords echo in the little girl's head.
They are playing now. Too many sharps and flats together all pounding down at once. And even though her ribbons are gone and her braids are only memories she can still feel the cold as she sits by her window. The glass is thick with a filigree frost. She adds to its twisting patterns with the mist from endless murmured pleas that embellish her mournful vigil. She raises shaky fingers to the window and leaves a skeletal handprint in the gelid lace. She searches through it, her yearning eyes pounding the cold chords of her elegy as she implores to the pristine handprint-shaped piece of ebony sky: Please come back. Please come back.
But there is no answer and she sits there shaking. Inviting their ethereal melodies. Consumed by lust for their cold stories. Still unable to bend her sweatsoaked head
and blow the candle out.
It's always so damn cold here. A deep cold. Like someone has injected you with ice water. And I'm sore.
And haunted.
Half remembered ghosts of desires dance in front of me. Mocking me with their indifference.
A little girl with braids and ribbons used to light candles for the ghosts that got lost in her room. They made her cold. But still she sang them lullabies and in hushed tones would whisper them stories of cracked bones and saving lights. And the ghosts would dance around her and whisper tales of their own-- icy words that snowed softly down all around the little girl, so that she could roll them up and pack them tight against her bed to make a cold place where the ghosts could sleep, nestled comfortably atop their own chilly stories.
The ghosts devoured her shadow one day so they could take its place and never be away from her. Her soft words ensnared them so that they hovered constantly over her, and when she breathed they could sneak inside and envelope her to croon soft words of their own. The cold they brought with them became a part of her as well, and soon she did not notice the creeping chill that settled in the very ends of her braids, because the ghosts were so intermeshed with her that to step along without their wake made dissonant piano chords echo in the little girl's head.
They are playing now. Too many sharps and flats together all pounding down at once. And even though her ribbons are gone and her braids are only memories she can still feel the cold as she sits by her window. The glass is thick with a filigree frost. She adds to its twisting patterns with the mist from endless murmured pleas that embellish her mournful vigil. She raises shaky fingers to the window and leaves a skeletal handprint in the gelid lace. She searches through it, her yearning eyes pounding the cold chords of her elegy as she implores to the pristine handprint-shaped piece of ebony sky: Please come back. Please come back.
But there is no answer and she sits there shaking. Inviting their ethereal melodies. Consumed by lust for their cold stories. Still unable to bend her sweatsoaked head
and blow the candle out.