LuciaDeMure

Whatever it was, it was once small and fine. Then it was wire and strangled skin. Let it touch the white-chalk bones you've so poorly kept clean. Gossamer mind-weave that span on the wind of voices and pulse and wrapped so tight it hurt. And misplaced so many. And it wore their skins as pride, as beautiful as spider-eggs. And ate them when it was born as a million tiny teeth. Chalk bones and paper skin it tried so dearly to hide. Smashed under the Break. Saved by the Clean and fixed by his pink and blue paint.

If you could taste the grey dust nightmare, that part of my head that rose to cling to you, there would be a warped little girl dilated in her sleep. Hooked into your skin, the ripped flesh so warm, sewn to my throat and stretched across my face. (I would not give up until I became my obsession.) And then it broke. and now I am awake.

Because when I touch you, when my finger tips splinter delicate on your skin, when my eyelashes tangle with yours, I rush inside. And in the pile of bedclothes, (and day clothes, and nightclothes) the sheets shut off the noise and I am one in silence. With your hand in mine. Tell me, in the moments you turn to me and whisper, breathe, fold around me... do you rush inside?

You were blossom. Pink and white and full of beauty. The song of the laughter we shared will tangle in my breath- to bid you farewell and sweet rest. Dear blossom angel, may you flower always.

Thin like wicker, our fingers tangle neatly and we hold on tight. Like this we can sleep and stay warm. Take me in; the white feathers of your wings, and the voice that seems to ring about my head a choir of I love you's. And in the night, when it comes back through my dreams and shakes me alive again, I wake to find my lips on your cheek. My angel, take me in.

You know when you can feel the time brush against your skin as it passes you by? It's like that, except it twists in with your breath and your words and your voice.... brass coloured time, and multi-coloured words. -It's like when you lie on your back on the grass and the clouds in the sky wind and breathe in and out and curl themselves together, and all you feel is cool and lifted. Can you see the tops of the trees? They bring themselves into the curve of the sky, green and yellow and twisting and feathered. They make no mark on the blue up there. They barely scratch, barely move, barely seem taller than the length of my arm... Touching t

Pressed a little deeper into your chest, your little ragdoll will close her eyes and sing to you. And the words she sparkles from her lips, are glitter-like and delicate. She is only words, knitted one by one together. If you fix her at the seams, taste the courage in her dreams, take her hand, ignore her screams, she'll calm down at your breath. Like orange, and sunshine, please hold her in her skin, and be her voice within her head. Because this little word-knit ragdoll is knitting again. And her stitches weave into yours. Where she belongs.

Whispering their purple spray lullabies, clinging to each others' lips, shifting patterns on the bed- They were whiteness. They were blackness. And they were pink and blue and yellow and green and every colour that whirred on her breath. That word on his breath. And curled around each other, the things they spoke with silent, blinking stares glimmered like silent, blinking stars. Brittle skin and broken bones and heads that held too many thoughts wound together and slept, velvet as their voices.

Postulated on the inside. Rotted on the inside. The thin, slicing, grinding in my head tangles through my wired mind. Treacle-thick words that leak from my mouth and taste like horrible things. And my skin is puffed up like boils, bloated ugly and burning. And I can't see for the greyness of the view. The view of you, who sees not this reflection. The hollowed-out, twisted, rotting reflection of a girl who isn't me. The words are on repeat. And the ground is glued to my feet. And the clouds fold over neat while I climb back-