And I don't think I want to think about it...in so much trouble...can't hide in the covers
...And there it goes...
One of the largest pieces ever, a metaphor for human intimacy.
There was no ease with which it was removed, no grace, no delicacy...
It's been torn out along with sinew, muscle mass and bone fragments. As blood particles disperse through the air, the room takes on a hue of red. Hazy. Slowly, the mist settles, coating everything, the floor, walls, light bulbs, instruments, glass wear, her hair....all of it. The room darkens, everything and everyone is sad now. Broken. Confused. Jaded by the blood loss.
The specimen is placed on a metal tray. And there it rests. It's a wonder to look upon. It's exterior is, in places. as soft as velvet, smooth, sensual. Other areas are less fragile but still possess a certain degree of sensitivity, ticklish even. Then there are the course regions, dry, cracked, rubbed away...This is where depression did it's dirty work, as well as insecurity, oh yes...idiocy too.
Inside this ravaged entity exists a degree of complexity comparable to the emotions that shaped and molded it. It's center is a hive of miniature passageways through which tiny thought particles dash in excitement. From door to door they go, exploring memory after memory. One door opens onto a moonlit dock. The two sit there, her back against his chest, they're breathing slowly...fully consumed by each other...Another door reveals a bedroom. Angry with her parents, she's buried in his arms, escaping harsh realities. A third door. A porch front, dim in the early morning blackness. The rain pours down in torrential sheets, he's there. Head bowed against nature, he's waiting just outside of the enclosure...his voice is strained, shaken with the expulsion of sobs and stammers. He's choking on the words he tries to speak. His voice is lost against the air...She's there, in the shadows under the porch roof. Neither moves, each is waiting. A word passes. She says she doesn't want things to change. Silence. He tells her everything will have to change, there is no other way.
..A word, a word. Another word...And then it happens. Their chains break and they fall into each other. There they rest, a shivering mass of appologies and forgivness upon the moistened concrete. It's wet and it's cold but they are oblivious. He tucks her bare feet under his shirt just to be sure she doesn't freeze. The minutes pass and the deluge subsides. They come away from each other and the morning light follows him home. He's the happiest he's ever been.
Back in the room. Back on the tray. The metaphor shakes. It's missing and it knows it...there's still time for a restoration.
Look at him, there on the operating table. Chest torn open, ribs splintered backwards.
Inside him there is nothing. That is, nothing genuine. There's a lung or two, a liver, a broken heart that doesn't always work right. All the necessities are there...but there's no real feeling, no joy, no ambition. Everything glistens, wet with a thin coat of optimism....all he could muster. But it's fading fast as it joins his many blood flecks in the air...soon it will be gone and the clutching panic will tear through his flesh like an evolved cancer. When that happens, all is lost.
His eyes roll in his head...he feels the room, he feels the table, he feels his blood pooling inside him...pooling in the cavity where something wonderful was once attached. Alas, it's not there and now he's drowning in his own plasma...It's panic or suffocation. Either way, this boy's dead.
There's still time for a remedy. He could mainline hope and get by until he's put back together. Sadly, hope has forsaken him and the one who could restore him doesn't wish to. Eventually, he accepts it. His time has expired....replacement?
Probably.
When his eyes close, then he'll know...that he was the one to do this...that he was the one who gave her the knife, and dotted the lines she needed to follow.
One of the largest pieces ever, a metaphor for human intimacy.
There was no ease with which it was removed, no grace, no delicacy...
It's been torn out along with sinew, muscle mass and bone fragments. As blood particles disperse through the air, the room takes on a hue of red. Hazy. Slowly, the mist settles, coating everything, the floor, walls, light bulbs, instruments, glass wear, her hair....all of it. The room darkens, everything and everyone is sad now. Broken. Confused. Jaded by the blood loss.
The specimen is placed on a metal tray. And there it rests. It's a wonder to look upon. It's exterior is, in places. as soft as velvet, smooth, sensual. Other areas are less fragile but still possess a certain degree of sensitivity, ticklish even. Then there are the course regions, dry, cracked, rubbed away...This is where depression did it's dirty work, as well as insecurity, oh yes...idiocy too.
Inside this ravaged entity exists a degree of complexity comparable to the emotions that shaped and molded it. It's center is a hive of miniature passageways through which tiny thought particles dash in excitement. From door to door they go, exploring memory after memory. One door opens onto a moonlit dock. The two sit there, her back against his chest, they're breathing slowly...fully consumed by each other...Another door reveals a bedroom. Angry with her parents, she's buried in his arms, escaping harsh realities. A third door. A porch front, dim in the early morning blackness. The rain pours down in torrential sheets, he's there. Head bowed against nature, he's waiting just outside of the enclosure...his voice is strained, shaken with the expulsion of sobs and stammers. He's choking on the words he tries to speak. His voice is lost against the air...She's there, in the shadows under the porch roof. Neither moves, each is waiting. A word passes. She says she doesn't want things to change. Silence. He tells her everything will have to change, there is no other way.
..A word, a word. Another word...And then it happens. Their chains break and they fall into each other. There they rest, a shivering mass of appologies and forgivness upon the moistened concrete. It's wet and it's cold but they are oblivious. He tucks her bare feet under his shirt just to be sure she doesn't freeze. The minutes pass and the deluge subsides. They come away from each other and the morning light follows him home. He's the happiest he's ever been.
Back in the room. Back on the tray. The metaphor shakes. It's missing and it knows it...there's still time for a restoration.
Look at him, there on the operating table. Chest torn open, ribs splintered backwards.
Inside him there is nothing. That is, nothing genuine. There's a lung or two, a liver, a broken heart that doesn't always work right. All the necessities are there...but there's no real feeling, no joy, no ambition. Everything glistens, wet with a thin coat of optimism....all he could muster. But it's fading fast as it joins his many blood flecks in the air...soon it will be gone and the clutching panic will tear through his flesh like an evolved cancer. When that happens, all is lost.
His eyes roll in his head...he feels the room, he feels the table, he feels his blood pooling inside him...pooling in the cavity where something wonderful was once attached. Alas, it's not there and now he's drowning in his own plasma...It's panic or suffocation. Either way, this boy's dead.
There's still time for a remedy. He could mainline hope and get by until he's put back together. Sadly, hope has forsaken him and the one who could restore him doesn't wish to. Eventually, he accepts it. His time has expired....replacement?
Probably.
When his eyes close, then he'll know...that he was the one to do this...that he was the one who gave her the knife, and dotted the lines she needed to follow.