Non-existant Seasons of Love
I dream of Spring.
He is soft shoots of grass. Green and pliable and innocent - in the beginning. He was a dawning sun on a horizon filled with too much pain. I know Justin understands. I want to be the corrupter this time. I am tired of being too good, too nice, too fucking responsible for everyone else. It is my turn to take someone's innocence. To rob them of the childhood I never had. I want to maim, destroy, desire. Burning flesh in an instant I am never to recall again.
Justin never thought to stop me. He thought only of soft brown/blond locks and the stinging pain of nails on his back. He never denied what he wanted. He wanted to be dirty, to be a whore, to be my whore. What else was he worth after all? I ran my hands through Justin's hair, musing it, stroking it, pulling it. Justin prided himself on the fact that he never screamed. Justin is bit lips and pale purple bruises blooming across his skin like flowers in spring. Justin is a dandelion aching to be blown apart. He didn't want to be. He wanted to destroy what was left inside him, and I am more than happy to oblige. He is pale pink lips stained with blood and ash and moonlight. Justin is exhalation.
~~~~~
I dream of summer.
She is bright yellow sunlight. She is fiery and alive and passion. I tried not to want to break her heart. She is pale blue sky and just as vacant. She is begging to be filled. I comply, reluctantly. But I don't want a clean slate. She is too blinding, too eager, too innocent. I can almost feel the sunlight when I am around her. But Candace cracked before I did.
She is overgrown grass, vibrant and green and living. I can't tell her, not with her eager mouth and soft little hands that I don't want to be with her. I'd only end up cutting her off from everything. So she flared up, like a blight, like the last few seconds of an eclipse. That's what she was supposed to do after all. Fight, fight, fight. Candace is dead brown grass that was exposed to too much sunlight.
~~~~~
I dream of Autumn.
He is pumpkin spice and red lips. I tried to tell him I loved him, but Casey didn't believe it. No one could love him. He never had enough confidence for that. I know Casey better than anyone, I know his secrets, his desires, his terrors. But I can't understand Casey. Casey doesn’t want to be understood. He is coils of smoke, drifting back and forth across my room. He is aged cider spilling out against the floor with a dull drip. I don't know how to make Casey happy anymore. Casey doesn't know either.
He is cracked autumn leaves, fragile and beautiful and twice as pathetic. He is soft warm sunlight. He is indigo sunsets and even deeper dreams. He is pale porcelain stained with specks of blood all over. Like a corpse. Like a virgin. I wanted to be the one to make Casey crack open and let the faint whispers of desire trickle out like the blood he would spill. He is transition. He is passing. He is nothing.
~~~~~
I never dream much about Winter.
I am blanketed in snow. I am uniform, unyielding, unmovable. I am a dying oak, and just as hollow. I am cold skin with eyes like an eclipse. Like a blackhole. Like overgrown pain due to be purged. I am always selfless. I don't want to make others worry, I take care of their problems. I am a knight with rusted armor.
I am clean, clear icicles dripping back onto the dirt in the ground. I am cinnamon and pine and all those artificial smells my mother uses to scent the house with. I am barren, a blank sunrise and an even bleaker sunset. Like something I can't express, something I can't resist. I am a queen with a sword in my head and a emptiness in my heart.
~~~~~
My own doing.
I wonder why they rely on me, why they love me, when I can't feel anything back. Can't do, can't feel, can't see. I wonder why they think I'm strong, when all I want to do is hurt. Hurt them, hurt me, fuck, scratch and burn.
Feeling?
I don't miss my bestfriend. I feel I should sometimes, and they all expect me to have a breakdown over it someday. I don't break down. I freeze, I numb, I cover in snow all of my being.
Mother, Father? Where are you, when I need you most?
I suffer quietly, happily, expectantly. But I don't want to be a martyr. I won't. I can't. I don't have enough left in me to try.
Moloch.
I am radiant bright stars at night. I'm a twinkling spectacle that everyone takes for granted. But I don't want to be adored. I hate adulation.
Stop, stop, stop staring, please
I'm incomplete, incompatible and filled with too much happiness to be real. I am a snowflake born on a strong wind. I'm begging the ice to crack, but I can't break it. No one can, not even my friends. Not even my lovers. So I turn to the next best thing. To drag them down with me into the icy pits of my own disgust. I am the blue lipped angel of death.
Happy?
He is soft shoots of grass. Green and pliable and innocent - in the beginning. He was a dawning sun on a horizon filled with too much pain. I know Justin understands. I want to be the corrupter this time. I am tired of being too good, too nice, too fucking responsible for everyone else. It is my turn to take someone's innocence. To rob them of the childhood I never had. I want to maim, destroy, desire. Burning flesh in an instant I am never to recall again.
Justin never thought to stop me. He thought only of soft brown/blond locks and the stinging pain of nails on his back. He never denied what he wanted. He wanted to be dirty, to be a whore, to be my whore. What else was he worth after all? I ran my hands through Justin's hair, musing it, stroking it, pulling it. Justin prided himself on the fact that he never screamed. Justin is bit lips and pale purple bruises blooming across his skin like flowers in spring. Justin is a dandelion aching to be blown apart. He didn't want to be. He wanted to destroy what was left inside him, and I am more than happy to oblige. He is pale pink lips stained with blood and ash and moonlight. Justin is exhalation.
~~~~~
I dream of summer.
She is bright yellow sunlight. She is fiery and alive and passion. I tried not to want to break her heart. She is pale blue sky and just as vacant. She is begging to be filled. I comply, reluctantly. But I don't want a clean slate. She is too blinding, too eager, too innocent. I can almost feel the sunlight when I am around her. But Candace cracked before I did.
She is overgrown grass, vibrant and green and living. I can't tell her, not with her eager mouth and soft little hands that I don't want to be with her. I'd only end up cutting her off from everything. So she flared up, like a blight, like the last few seconds of an eclipse. That's what she was supposed to do after all. Fight, fight, fight. Candace is dead brown grass that was exposed to too much sunlight.
~~~~~
I dream of Autumn.
He is pumpkin spice and red lips. I tried to tell him I loved him, but Casey didn't believe it. No one could love him. He never had enough confidence for that. I know Casey better than anyone, I know his secrets, his desires, his terrors. But I can't understand Casey. Casey doesn’t want to be understood. He is coils of smoke, drifting back and forth across my room. He is aged cider spilling out against the floor with a dull drip. I don't know how to make Casey happy anymore. Casey doesn't know either.
He is cracked autumn leaves, fragile and beautiful and twice as pathetic. He is soft warm sunlight. He is indigo sunsets and even deeper dreams. He is pale porcelain stained with specks of blood all over. Like a corpse. Like a virgin. I wanted to be the one to make Casey crack open and let the faint whispers of desire trickle out like the blood he would spill. He is transition. He is passing. He is nothing.
~~~~~
I never dream much about Winter.
I am blanketed in snow. I am uniform, unyielding, unmovable. I am a dying oak, and just as hollow. I am cold skin with eyes like an eclipse. Like a blackhole. Like overgrown pain due to be purged. I am always selfless. I don't want to make others worry, I take care of their problems. I am a knight with rusted armor.
I am clean, clear icicles dripping back onto the dirt in the ground. I am cinnamon and pine and all those artificial smells my mother uses to scent the house with. I am barren, a blank sunrise and an even bleaker sunset. Like something I can't express, something I can't resist. I am a queen with a sword in my head and a emptiness in my heart.
~~~~~
My own doing.
I wonder why they rely on me, why they love me, when I can't feel anything back. Can't do, can't feel, can't see. I wonder why they think I'm strong, when all I want to do is hurt. Hurt them, hurt me, fuck, scratch and burn.
Feeling?
I don't miss my bestfriend. I feel I should sometimes, and they all expect me to have a breakdown over it someday. I don't break down. I freeze, I numb, I cover in snow all of my being.
Mother, Father? Where are you, when I need you most?
I suffer quietly, happily, expectantly. But I don't want to be a martyr. I won't. I can't. I don't have enough left in me to try.
Moloch.
I am radiant bright stars at night. I'm a twinkling spectacle that everyone takes for granted. But I don't want to be adored. I hate adulation.
Stop, stop, stop staring, please
I'm incomplete, incompatible and filled with too much happiness to be real. I am a snowflake born on a strong wind. I'm begging the ice to crack, but I can't break it. No one can, not even my friends. Not even my lovers. So I turn to the next best thing. To drag them down with me into the icy pits of my own disgust. I am the blue lipped angel of death.
Happy?