LJ Idol Week 2: Living Rent-Free in Your Head
A Tale of Caution
I’ll grant you a moment to assay the ill-condition of my anatomy
where flesh has long been ripped to bones
--I am an image vanitas, a skeleton surrounded by butterflies
and I’ve such a tough wish to banish these ghosts
and rid the piquant taste of wormwood that lingers
on lust-bitten lips
but sage won’t work the same on the se’irim wandering the wastes
of my desert brain
Her face has morphed over the years as its topography has etched new rivers and lines, an anchor at the corners of her lips and an extra squint added to her eyes. She had found herself addicted to the flow of tears that carved canyons in her cheeks before, during, and following her romantic endeavors.
First comes the pining, then the wondering--and how she treasures this part! Not the pining so much; when she enters one of her fits of nostalgia, she never focuses on the pining. That's more of the planning stage where she has identified her target and painstakingly figured out how to make their acquaintance. The boundaries are ever blurring as her markers of shame depend on what it takes to meet her goal. Whatever the path, once she finds herself there she can settle into the art of wondering, all wide eyes and masterful morphing into what her seventh sense knows she needs to be. This is the delicious part where she searches for signs of requital and meticulously analyzes each interaction. She memorizes these parts with great ease.
Next is the whirlwind--the growing, the breaking, the fixing, the dining, the love. This part is crucial but only as a catalyst from wonder to wonder. It can take weeks, months, years and she'll never know until she gets there. Sometimes she is curious what it would be like if she wasn't herself, if she could keep them and never move on to the last phase. Still, every time the end is inevitable as she is only herself and can't hide it forever. The cracks under her eyes begin to show, split lips and teeth chewing lead. Demure gives way to desperation, blood under fingernails, and--worst of all--begging. Some last longer than others, but they all leave.
This births the last phase, the return of wonder. There are carefully plotted reunions with just the right level of meaning beneath the surface. An "I miss you" will leave her reeling for hours, days if it must, and she will do anything to cement the sentiment of longing. And it is the longing that matters, make no mistake. She has never once gone back, as that would entirely ruin her high. Instead she takes those moments where they waver and crushes them into fine lines to snort them up into her brain where they can stay. Nostalgia smells musty and tastes like something she can never quite place her finger on; it's always at the tip of her tongue.
it’s a slow awakening sacral sensation that sways in satiation
I love like legato whenever allowed
insidious innocence whisked together into eloquence
with the practiced skill of a master of deranged love
defiled and defamed yet you crave it the same
…
This has been my post for week 2 of LJ Idol. The poll is found here: https://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1070123.html
I am in the second poll. You can read the other entries if you like and vote if you see fit. Thanks for your support!
I’ll grant you a moment to assay the ill-condition of my anatomy
where flesh has long been ripped to bones
--I am an image vanitas, a skeleton surrounded by butterflies
and I’ve such a tough wish to banish these ghosts
and rid the piquant taste of wormwood that lingers
on lust-bitten lips
but sage won’t work the same on the se’irim wandering the wastes
of my desert brain
Her face has morphed over the years as its topography has etched new rivers and lines, an anchor at the corners of her lips and an extra squint added to her eyes. She had found herself addicted to the flow of tears that carved canyons in her cheeks before, during, and following her romantic endeavors.
First comes the pining, then the wondering--and how she treasures this part! Not the pining so much; when she enters one of her fits of nostalgia, she never focuses on the pining. That's more of the planning stage where she has identified her target and painstakingly figured out how to make their acquaintance. The boundaries are ever blurring as her markers of shame depend on what it takes to meet her goal. Whatever the path, once she finds herself there she can settle into the art of wondering, all wide eyes and masterful morphing into what her seventh sense knows she needs to be. This is the delicious part where she searches for signs of requital and meticulously analyzes each interaction. She memorizes these parts with great ease.
Next is the whirlwind--the growing, the breaking, the fixing, the dining, the love. This part is crucial but only as a catalyst from wonder to wonder. It can take weeks, months, years and she'll never know until she gets there. Sometimes she is curious what it would be like if she wasn't herself, if she could keep them and never move on to the last phase. Still, every time the end is inevitable as she is only herself and can't hide it forever. The cracks under her eyes begin to show, split lips and teeth chewing lead. Demure gives way to desperation, blood under fingernails, and--worst of all--begging. Some last longer than others, but they all leave.
This births the last phase, the return of wonder. There are carefully plotted reunions with just the right level of meaning beneath the surface. An "I miss you" will leave her reeling for hours, days if it must, and she will do anything to cement the sentiment of longing. And it is the longing that matters, make no mistake. She has never once gone back, as that would entirely ruin her high. Instead she takes those moments where they waver and crushes them into fine lines to snort them up into her brain where they can stay. Nostalgia smells musty and tastes like something she can never quite place her finger on; it's always at the tip of her tongue.
it’s a slow awakening sacral sensation that sways in satiation
I love like legato whenever allowed
insidious innocence whisked together into eloquence
with the practiced skill of a master of deranged love
defiled and defamed yet you crave it the same
…
This has been my post for week 2 of LJ Idol. The poll is found here: https://therealljidol.livejournal.com/1070123.html
I am in the second poll. You can read the other entries if you like and vote if you see fit. Thanks for your support!