Jealousy
Based on a poem by Ruth Ellison called "Jealousy"
I put out my hand and plucked a rose
A red satin rose with a velvet scent
You stood there, like the most perfect Turner or Rembrandt, exuding an air of precision and poise. Your hair cascaded down beside your face in unbroken ringlets of smooth, shiny brown while your eyes, like chips of emerald sparkled effortlessly. They were surrounded by a thick layer of kohl that only accentuated and extended their raw beauty. Upon merely entering your presence, you could inhale your unique scent, a mixture cheap cigars and stale alcohol. It was a thick, velvety scent that assaulted your nostrils only in the best of ways. You clothes suited your casual manner as they hung loosely off your well build body. Down to your worn converse all stars you were rugged yet the epitome of stunning beauty. Without even trying, you were perfect.
And chaliced its loveliness in reverent palms
Knowing that it was perfect
You were mine, all mine. Every ounce of your silken flesh and blameless face was mine. I could assault your lips with my own at my will. I could wrap my bony arms around your utopian figure that curved in and out in all the right places whenever it pleased me to do so. I could drag my dirty nails through your curvy locks and trace patterns on your pale cheeks with my fingertips. It was my prerogative to run my tainted fingers down your unadulterated chest down to the perfectly drawn tattoo that adorned your torso. Even though I have the exact designed etched into my skin, it could never match the beauty of yours. Nothing in me could ever match your beauty.
Then because I could not make the rose
And because I could not paint the rose
You swung your hips in a hypnotising manner, the kind that leaves a taste of longing just on the tip of your tongue. It was disgusting; you just stood there, radiating perfection from every pore. I could take your faultlessly carved hands in my own; I could kiss your perfectly formed crimson lips; I could hold your immaculate body hard up against my own yet that is all I could do. Your beauty was not mine, I could not capture it, I could not make it part of me. No humanly means could hold your beauty within me for it just would slip through my fingers like fine white grains of sand. You were everything and I could not have it. I never liked it when things didn’t go my way.
Nor carve it, nor mould it
Nor even draw its beauty in my words
You were not the only one with green eyes my dear, though my green eyes were not pretty like yours. My once blue eyes were not filled with passion or desire, they did not effortlessly sparkle. They were fuelled by a green monster called jealousy that dwelled inside of me, one that coursed through my veins possessing my very being, driving my very soul. I don’t know if I ever loved you as a person, as a character with a personality or whether I was merely drawn to your body, your figure, your perfection. I always loved anatomy. But even so you were more than I expected, I never really believed in perfection before you. No painter could paint your perfection, no photographer could capture it. I never believed that I could be attracted to a person’s every curve and crevice, with such grace and beauty that I could not even draw it with my words. I do not take defeat lightly.
I slowly closed my fingers over it
“It’s terrible it had to come to this,” my whispered tone echoed across the bare and darkened room. I could feel your terror thick in the air as you struggled to string coherent words together; you’re beautifully pale throat choking on your own fear. Your eyes were even more beautiful when they were frightened, if that is possible while your fear aroused my every sense in a way I never knew. It’s a pity such a pity, I thought to myself as the sound of a cocking revolver danced across the hardwood floor while the wind whistled and rapped against the grimy glass.
And crushed it
The neighbours never heard you scream.
I put out my hand and plucked a rose
A red satin rose with a velvet scent
You stood there, like the most perfect Turner or Rembrandt, exuding an air of precision and poise. Your hair cascaded down beside your face in unbroken ringlets of smooth, shiny brown while your eyes, like chips of emerald sparkled effortlessly. They were surrounded by a thick layer of kohl that only accentuated and extended their raw beauty. Upon merely entering your presence, you could inhale your unique scent, a mixture cheap cigars and stale alcohol. It was a thick, velvety scent that assaulted your nostrils only in the best of ways. You clothes suited your casual manner as they hung loosely off your well build body. Down to your worn converse all stars you were rugged yet the epitome of stunning beauty. Without even trying, you were perfect.
And chaliced its loveliness in reverent palms
Knowing that it was perfect
You were mine, all mine. Every ounce of your silken flesh and blameless face was mine. I could assault your lips with my own at my will. I could wrap my bony arms around your utopian figure that curved in and out in all the right places whenever it pleased me to do so. I could drag my dirty nails through your curvy locks and trace patterns on your pale cheeks with my fingertips. It was my prerogative to run my tainted fingers down your unadulterated chest down to the perfectly drawn tattoo that adorned your torso. Even though I have the exact designed etched into my skin, it could never match the beauty of yours. Nothing in me could ever match your beauty.
Then because I could not make the rose
And because I could not paint the rose
You swung your hips in a hypnotising manner, the kind that leaves a taste of longing just on the tip of your tongue. It was disgusting; you just stood there, radiating perfection from every pore. I could take your faultlessly carved hands in my own; I could kiss your perfectly formed crimson lips; I could hold your immaculate body hard up against my own yet that is all I could do. Your beauty was not mine, I could not capture it, I could not make it part of me. No humanly means could hold your beauty within me for it just would slip through my fingers like fine white grains of sand. You were everything and I could not have it. I never liked it when things didn’t go my way.
Nor carve it, nor mould it
Nor even draw its beauty in my words
You were not the only one with green eyes my dear, though my green eyes were not pretty like yours. My once blue eyes were not filled with passion or desire, they did not effortlessly sparkle. They were fuelled by a green monster called jealousy that dwelled inside of me, one that coursed through my veins possessing my very being, driving my very soul. I don’t know if I ever loved you as a person, as a character with a personality or whether I was merely drawn to your body, your figure, your perfection. I always loved anatomy. But even so you were more than I expected, I never really believed in perfection before you. No painter could paint your perfection, no photographer could capture it. I never believed that I could be attracted to a person’s every curve and crevice, with such grace and beauty that I could not even draw it with my words. I do not take defeat lightly.
I slowly closed my fingers over it
“It’s terrible it had to come to this,” my whispered tone echoed across the bare and darkened room. I could feel your terror thick in the air as you struggled to string coherent words together; you’re beautifully pale throat choking on your own fear. Your eyes were even more beautiful when they were frightened, if that is possible while your fear aroused my every sense in a way I never knew. It’s a pity such a pity, I thought to myself as the sound of a cocking revolver danced across the hardwood floor while the wind whistled and rapped against the grimy glass.
And crushed it
The neighbours never heard you scream.