beautiful things, beautiful people, pretty things, pretty people
beautiful things, beautiful people,
pretty things, pretty people;
she figures she loves beautiful things, and she's five years old sitting in the attic of her old house gazing at the sunset painting the horizon. she likes pretty things, things that she can hold in her hand every day and night, clutching it in her small palms, marveling at the beauty such an artificial or real thing could have. she doesn't like beautiful people though, mind you, she hates them, for she loves glamorous things not people who are pleasant. for years since then she loves pretty things, things that she can hold and hug to her heart, but every night she dreams dreams of beautiful people, people she can never have, of beautiful people she hates. she's twenty-one when she stops sleeping altogether, the furstration and annoyance that has built up from all those dreams, that should be called nightmares rather, so she stops sleeping just to avoid their appealing faces and charming voices. voices that say things she doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand, in voices she can never own. so she doesn't sleep, drinks enough so that alcohol swims in her veins in burning acidic paths, a feeling she has long gotten addicted and hooked on. she drinks until she passes out, not fall asleep, so that she won't dream of the elegant people she can never have.
she's twenty-three when she meets him and it's not like a lovey dovey, cutsey scene out of a drama or novel written by a lonely woman who writes everything she longs for in a man, the impossible perfection she seeks, in them. she meets him and he's beautiful, the most beautiful person she has ever saw, a boy whose enchanting face was matched by no other. he's so pretty that it makes her heart ache just a little, just a lot, the size of a drop or puddle, the size of oceans and oceans linked end to end that goes on and on forever, and it makes her think about all the dreams, nightmares, of beautiful people that resounds in her head just a bit, just a bunch, the size of lint or dust, the size of land and land stretched a linked by corners to corners that go off and off everlasting. At first she wondered if he was plastic, a fantastic fantastic plastic doll. but he moves and she's disappointed because he's not a thing but a person, just like those in her dreams, nightmares, except real, in reality, not just a figment of her imagination.
she stares at him, glares at him, until finally he approaches her with a guarded by questioning gaze. and she speaks with malice and anger untameable, voice thick with annoyance and rage uncontrollable.
"I hate you. you're not a thing so you shouldn't be beautiful. cause if you're a thing than i can't have you."
as she is about to get up he holds onto her with elegant, perfect fingers that she curses and thinks should never exist in the first place. when he speaks his voice is of an angel's, the exact and brilliant tone that makes her heart jump. why did he have to be prettier than all the other pretty things in the world?
"i'll be a thing, your beautiful thing, and you can have me." she takes him home that night, sleeps in his arms that are of perfected firmness and length, and it is the first time in a long time that she has actually slept. she doesn't dream about beautiful people but of the pretty him, the him that holds her tight, of his scent and holy voice that forever sings her lullabies in her mind. and it doesn't go against what she believes just because she loves him, because he's a pretty thing, not a pretty person, just a thing she can hold at night, marvel at the beauty every day and night, clutching in her still small but large compared to when she was five palms, holding and hugging to her heart.
she loves pretty things, beautiful things, the glamorous, radiant, and exquisite things that can be hers, hers, and only hers.
she's twenty-five when she watches him start to wither, watches him grow skinnier and weaker everyday, but he's still beautiful, oh, she means it's so beautiful because he's not a person so how can it be a he? it's been twent years since she has figured out she loves pretty things and they look, she and it, together for something even more marvelous than him, she means it. and they search high and low until he, it, he, it grows tired, too exhausted to move, and every day he, it has less and less energy. maybe it's time for her to change his, it's battery, but it seems as if he has no slot for one so she and him, it continue to look for a replacement. and still, they, she and it never seem able to find one.
she's twenty-six when he, it asks why she loves beautiful things, not people, not ever people, and she just tells him, it that because she loves the feeling of owning them, cherishing the beauty she herself could never be. tells him, it that she loves being able to hold the beautiful things, not people, to her heart, so that they're just hers and only hers. he, it tells her that he, it thinks she's a pretty thing, a beautiful thing, no, a pretty person, a beautiful person. but she laughs because it's stupid and silly, and tells him, it after the giggles of mirthless mirth have died, just telling him, it that she isn't a pretty person or thing, just he ugly duckling that collects the appealing things. she tells him, it that his, it's opinion didn't matter because he was programmed to say it.
she's twenty-seven when he's gone altogether and still she hasn't found anything as elegant or nearly as charming. he's a he, not an it, because he dies with vermillion blood that isn't cherry or strawberry flavoured syrup that is fake, but iron and more iron, gritty crimson that stains white sheets that used to be beautiful too. and she cries, tears that are far from beautiful, not pretty at all, because she hates and hates pretty people, beautiful people, lovely people she can never have. he's skin and bones but still so magnificent, and still she wonders why he isn't a doll, isn't an it, isn't fantastic plastic that is fantastic and just fantastic that if broke can be fixed. if he was a doll she could just replace him, but he isn't never was, no matter how she wished for him to be, and she can never own him as whoever in the after life that has decided to had taken him. so she cries oceans, buckets and pails of unappealing tears, thinking that if he was a thing that she'd still have him now. and how she hates him, hates the very fact that she could never hate him of all the other beautiful people, because they're beautiful and she loves them too much. he dies like every other beautiful person and she knows this is why she doesn't like beautiful people, pretty people, magnificent and charming people, cause and because she can never have them.
when she dreams she doesn't dream dreams about beautiful people, beautiful things, pretty people, pretty things, but of a beautiful him, pretty him with fingers of such elegance, arms that had held her with such exquisiteness, and of his voice of angels that sings, continues to sings, will forever and everlastingly sing lullabies in her head.
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something random that popped in my head....the result of writing complete crap in my NaNo work and of just writing what I want to write...
might use in my NaNo work...idk.