my body is a caged bird
title: my body is a caged bird
rating: pg13
summary: her name tasted foreign in his mouth, yet he couldn't stop thinking about her.
notes: original fiction
Her smile never seemed to touch her eyes. She waltzes into the room and the air goes still. She sits on the bar stool.
She reeked of smoke, whiskey, and sexual tension.
He's never seen anyone look like such a ghost.
*
He taps her on the shoulder. He hopes this isn't a mistake he'll end up regretting.
Like the skeletons he's hanging in his closet every other night.
Startled, her cigarette falls from her mouth. It burns her thigh.
"Motherfucker."
She stands up to observe her thighs and mindlessly highers her dress.
He stands there observing and he's (not wanting to admit) amused and slightly turned on by her antics.
He was smiling to himself and his thoughts were then interrupted by her voice.
"Can I help you?" She impatiently asked.
He looks at her and notices her face. She has deep brown eyes and perfectly round red lips he simple yearned to taste.
"What's your name?"
He notices her smudged eyeliner and faint traces of lipstick. Her hair was curly and had that tousled just-out-of-bed look.
She bit her lip, "Sienna."
*
She left soon after, leaving neither a phone number or even a simple goodbye.
Siennasiennasienna.
Her name tasted foreign in his mouth, yet he couldn't stop thinking about her.
Your heartbeat is pulsing at night in your chest.
*
When he sees her again, he doesn't even realize it's her.
She's walking, her boots scuffed black and black tights that had runs in them.
Yet she manged to look so put-together.
He's shouting her name, looking for that face and the looks people are giving him don't bother him. She stops and looks around before finally settling on his face.
She shakes her head and continues to walk away.
I want to feel the two of us dangerously close.
*
He finds her at a coffee shop, reading Kafka and sipping a cup of cliched black coffee.
"I thought you'd never find me," she murmurs without looking up.
"I didn't you know you wanted me to."
She smiles, "You're here aren't you?"
*
They spend the day together in that coffee shop. He tells her about his life as the prodigal son whose dream is to be the next Monet.
"I know, it sounds like any rich boy's tragedy."
"No. Everyone has a story to tell. And every story is different."
"So, what's yours?"
"My story?"
He nods and sips his tea.
"You know how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly?"
"Yeah, the metamorphosis and all that shit."
"Mhmm. It's one of nature's beautiful procedures. I mean, how can something so ugly become beautiful, you know?" She sips from her coffee, "Unfortunately though, not all of them get happy ending. Some cocoons don't make it; they're jilted by the wind. They die. That's my story. The butterfly in me never really came out."
She smiles sadly and jots down something on a napkin and leaves.
This is no great illusion, when I'm with you, I'm looking for a ghost.
*
He calls her the next day. And the next.
He's intrigued by her enigmatic ways. The way her words have so much more meaning than what she says.
Late night phone calls result in stories, thoughts, and recollections of things future, past, and present.
"Do you believe in love?" She asks him one night.
"Uh, I guess so. Do you?"
"No, I believe in chemistry."
I'll prove to you it's not lust, it's chemistry.
*
Five days later, she disappears.
Three days after, he opens his door to find her there, eyes glazed and her full lips slightly parted.
"Make me feel love."
And your slowly shaking finger tips show that your scared like me so let's pretend we're alone.
*
She bled.
He was surprised, really. She always seemed so worldly and sure of herself, she never seemed that she would be a virgin.
His arms were crossed and it made her feel anxious, not knowing what they meant.
"Hey.."
"Yeah?"
"Can you tell me a story?"
He looked confused.
*
She wasn't the same after that.
She talked in more complex ways and he hardly ever understood what she was really saying.
"Is it the questions that are hard? Or the answers?"
Both.
"I don't know,"
"Fuck you."
The tragedy starts from the very first spark, losing your mind for the sake of your heart.
*
"I don't like this," she says, smoke in her lungs. Her cigarette was idly placed in her porcelain fingers and she was completely naked, lying on his sheets.
"Huh?" He was tracing her bellybutton over and over, thinking about doing with his tongue, and he felt her shiver when his fingers started traveling downwards.
"I feel like a bird," she replies, eyes closed.
"Why? Do I make you feel high?" he says, jokingly, his hands massaging her inner thighs.
"I feel like a bird, but a caged one."
He stops at looks at her, tears falling down her face.
We're slaves to our impulses; we're afraid of our emotions.
*
After that night, he never sees her again.
Like a storm, she drove in full speed ahead and then leaves, leaving places in distress and other unchanged.
He racks his brain for an explanation but he knows that she just won't come back.
He gets the occasional letter that usually consists of a quote of some sort that never made sense.
They said more than he ever thought.
*
He thinks about the night they first had sex.
"What's love?" She had asked him, her leg curling over his hips.
"I don't know."
"But you believe in it, don't you?"
"Yeah. And?"
She sighed and rolled her eyes, "I don't believe in love and I know what it is."
"Oh yeah? What is it then?"
She got serious and her eyes began to drift closer, "I don't think real love is a passionate kiss. I think it's a kiss on the forehead that means so much more."
"Is that so?"
She looks him straight in the eyes, "I don't want your lust. I want your love."
*
Five months later, he finds a note in his mailbox.
Thank you.
He doesn't need to see the signature at the bottom; he knows exactly who it is.
And he knows why she's thanking him.
He let her go, he didn't look for her even if his mind (and his heart) were telling him to and fucking look for her.
He finally realized that she just wasn't the best thing that happened to him.
He wanted to love her, but he couldn't; she was too difficult and too wild to be tamed.
He realizes that she was her own cage, letting (trying) to believe in something she couldn't.
He couldn't giver her that feeling real love because tongues and narrow hips don't equal love.
My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love.
*
You say you want to know her like a lover and undo her damage, she’ll be new again.
Soon you’ll find that if you try to save her It will lose her anger.
You will never win.
rating: pg13
summary: her name tasted foreign in his mouth, yet he couldn't stop thinking about her.
notes: original fiction
Her smile never seemed to touch her eyes. She waltzes into the room and the air goes still. She sits on the bar stool.
She reeked of smoke, whiskey, and sexual tension.
He's never seen anyone look like such a ghost.
*
He taps her on the shoulder. He hopes this isn't a mistake he'll end up regretting.
Like the skeletons he's hanging in his closet every other night.
Startled, her cigarette falls from her mouth. It burns her thigh.
"Motherfucker."
She stands up to observe her thighs and mindlessly highers her dress.
He stands there observing and he's (not wanting to admit) amused and slightly turned on by her antics.
He was smiling to himself and his thoughts were then interrupted by her voice.
"Can I help you?" She impatiently asked.
He looks at her and notices her face. She has deep brown eyes and perfectly round red lips he simple yearned to taste.
"What's your name?"
He notices her smudged eyeliner and faint traces of lipstick. Her hair was curly and had that tousled just-out-of-bed look.
She bit her lip, "Sienna."
*
She left soon after, leaving neither a phone number or even a simple goodbye.
Siennasiennasienna.
Her name tasted foreign in his mouth, yet he couldn't stop thinking about her.
Your heartbeat is pulsing at night in your chest.
*
When he sees her again, he doesn't even realize it's her.
She's walking, her boots scuffed black and black tights that had runs in them.
Yet she manged to look so put-together.
He's shouting her name, looking for that face and the looks people are giving him don't bother him. She stops and looks around before finally settling on his face.
She shakes her head and continues to walk away.
I want to feel the two of us dangerously close.
*
He finds her at a coffee shop, reading Kafka and sipping a cup of cliched black coffee.
"I thought you'd never find me," she murmurs without looking up.
"I didn't you know you wanted me to."
She smiles, "You're here aren't you?"
*
They spend the day together in that coffee shop. He tells her about his life as the prodigal son whose dream is to be the next Monet.
"I know, it sounds like any rich boy's tragedy."
"No. Everyone has a story to tell. And every story is different."
"So, what's yours?"
"My story?"
He nods and sips his tea.
"You know how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly?"
"Yeah, the metamorphosis and all that shit."
"Mhmm. It's one of nature's beautiful procedures. I mean, how can something so ugly become beautiful, you know?" She sips from her coffee, "Unfortunately though, not all of them get happy ending. Some cocoons don't make it; they're jilted by the wind. They die. That's my story. The butterfly in me never really came out."
She smiles sadly and jots down something on a napkin and leaves.
This is no great illusion, when I'm with you, I'm looking for a ghost.
*
He calls her the next day. And the next.
He's intrigued by her enigmatic ways. The way her words have so much more meaning than what she says.
Late night phone calls result in stories, thoughts, and recollections of things future, past, and present.
"Do you believe in love?" She asks him one night.
"Uh, I guess so. Do you?"
"No, I believe in chemistry."
I'll prove to you it's not lust, it's chemistry.
*
Five days later, she disappears.
Three days after, he opens his door to find her there, eyes glazed and her full lips slightly parted.
"Make me feel love."
And your slowly shaking finger tips show that your scared like me so let's pretend we're alone.
*
She bled.
He was surprised, really. She always seemed so worldly and sure of herself, she never seemed that she would be a virgin.
His arms were crossed and it made her feel anxious, not knowing what they meant.
"Hey.."
"Yeah?"
"Can you tell me a story?"
He looked confused.
*
She wasn't the same after that.
She talked in more complex ways and he hardly ever understood what she was really saying.
"Is it the questions that are hard? Or the answers?"
Both.
"I don't know,"
"Fuck you."
The tragedy starts from the very first spark, losing your mind for the sake of your heart.
*
"I don't like this," she says, smoke in her lungs. Her cigarette was idly placed in her porcelain fingers and she was completely naked, lying on his sheets.
"Huh?" He was tracing her bellybutton over and over, thinking about doing with his tongue, and he felt her shiver when his fingers started traveling downwards.
"I feel like a bird," she replies, eyes closed.
"Why? Do I make you feel high?" he says, jokingly, his hands massaging her inner thighs.
"I feel like a bird, but a caged one."
He stops at looks at her, tears falling down her face.
We're slaves to our impulses; we're afraid of our emotions.
*
After that night, he never sees her again.
Like a storm, she drove in full speed ahead and then leaves, leaving places in distress and other unchanged.
He racks his brain for an explanation but he knows that she just won't come back.
He gets the occasional letter that usually consists of a quote of some sort that never made sense.
They said more than he ever thought.
*
He thinks about the night they first had sex.
"What's love?" She had asked him, her leg curling over his hips.
"I don't know."
"But you believe in it, don't you?"
"Yeah. And?"
She sighed and rolled her eyes, "I don't believe in love and I know what it is."
"Oh yeah? What is it then?"
She got serious and her eyes began to drift closer, "I don't think real love is a passionate kiss. I think it's a kiss on the forehead that means so much more."
"Is that so?"
She looks him straight in the eyes, "I don't want your lust. I want your love."
*
Five months later, he finds a note in his mailbox.
Thank you.
He doesn't need to see the signature at the bottom; he knows exactly who it is.
And he knows why she's thanking him.
He let her go, he didn't look for her even if his mind (and his heart) were telling him to and fucking look for her.
He finally realized that she just wasn't the best thing that happened to him.
He wanted to love her, but he couldn't; she was too difficult and too wild to be tamed.
He realizes that she was her own cage, letting (trying) to believe in something she couldn't.
He couldn't giver her that feeling real love because tongues and narrow hips don't equal love.
My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love.
*
You say you want to know her like a lover and undo her damage, she’ll be new again.
Soon you’ll find that if you try to save her It will lose her anger.
You will never win.