ellievsbear
@theartofmadeline
Janaina Medeiros
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Jules of Nature
Cosmic Funnies
Product Placement
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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art blog(derogatory)
Three Goblin Art
$LAYYYTER
Xuebing Du
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Kaledo Art
noise dept.
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cherry valley forever
Love Begins
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@casviolet-blog
plastic heart
baited breath, hands in hair, strands fall like autumn leaves, cascading down to linoleum floor, i can’t open my eyes wide enough, no matter how hard i scratch i cannot feel, my lead tongue cannot stop hatred spilling from my poison lips, i wonder if i’m really living.
photograph
he’s frayed at the edges, black sharpie motifs replace the date, smudged ink and faded memories.
dark rimmed eyes, dilated pupils blazing through camera flash, tongue in cheek, forced smiles.
he’s burnt out, a candle extinguished by the hasty breath, heroin’s sharp grasp on his throat, metallic blood spilling from slack jaw.
but who’s to blame? his rock and roll life style? women and men waltzing in tandem, to the temple of his dressing room.
the dream, red white and blue pills of ecstasy, a star spangled banner of powders, this is what it means to be human. rock and roll clown,
anxiety masked with thick smoke, layers of kohl liner, empty cans of hairspray, suffocating leather attire, choking on the confides of stardom.
i dare you
red lacquer nails peel through sweat and skin, scratching against muscle, frantic, messy hands guiding crimson lines of love and lust, beads of maroon seeping into virgin white sheets, diluting simplicity.
side by side, sweat drenched hair falls over bony shoulders, satisfaction blooming like wild flowers, red roses embedded in plush, pale lips.
white blood
so tired of it all / cant do it alone / said you’d always be my white blood.
dark hair cascades over his pale skin, casting aggressive shadows against his sunken eyes and hollow cheekbones. his lips are ghastly pale peach, the only pigment in his face that subtracts from the corpse aesthetic. dark eyes roam around the almost empty corridor, piercing into every person who steps into his vision. his eyes crinkle at the corners, fine lines that make him seem more like a real person rather than an illusion or a ghost of happiness. his eyes crinkle when he smiles, baring his white pointed teeth for the split-second before covering his mouth with his hand, a small insecurity he is convinced no one with a normal mind will notice. silence hangs over him easier than conversation, led phone screen illuminating his cold eyes as he effortlessly scrolls through social media- receiving no real gratification or happiness from the comments on his enchanting posts; he is compulsive and takes pride in time stamping all of his photographs. sometimes this is the only thing that reminds me that he is a real person, seeing dates and times next to his hollow frame and dead eye-d selfies brings me a sense of relief. maybe we’re not meant to be near each other, two opposite magnets pushing away from one another with such raw aggression and need that people will stop and stare in awe, curious as to whether the experiment will work and the magnets will permanently separate. i met him in cupids month, surrounded by paper hearts and heart shaped chocolates. maybe this is why i see him as though i am wearing rose-tinted goggles, his pale skin illuminates the room and his dark eyes make my heart feel like the heaviest anchor in any harbour. the weight is comfortable and grounding, it reminds me that my heart is still beating and that i am always capable of making the wrong decision.
not getting finished; live wire
some shit i wrote about sunflowers and seeing romance in everything i guess idk im not feeling my writing at all at the minute inspiration: live wire by oh wonder // a smoll // van gogh’s sunflower work
Her brisk walk bounces into a slow jog as she reaches the glass panelled doors, the serenity of nature greeting her enthusiastically as she escapes the confines of her personal hell. Being stuck in a room with her so called boyfriend wore her down to the point of exhaustion. The warm summer wind blows against her exposed, pale legs and wraps around the skin in a gentle, almost reassuring caress. She stops, taking in the street around her for the first time in years. The sun creates picturesque shadows on the tall sky scrapers from the overgrown trees, the art museum of nature follows her as she wonders forwards, scraping her worn leather shoes against the unrelenting harsh concrete pavement and watching in awe as the patent scrapes from her footwear effortlessly. Birds call to each other, their language foreign to her ears though she appreciates their chirps nevertheless. Her feet stall for a second as she admires the urban graffiti disruption to her serenity, the neon colours of the spray paint scream out at her to notice their subliminal messages.
“Not bad?” She jumps at the sudden question, slowly turning around to face the stranger who had offered her the sudden interrogation with no remark. “You did these?” She raises an eyebrow at the peculiar character leaning against the worn-down wall. He grins at her interest; his happiness radiates a foreign sense of genuine kindness and willingness- something that had been lacklustre in her day. She scratches the side of her arm nervously, running overgrown nails over the bumps of scars and freckles to calm her nerves as she watches the mysterious stranger shake the neon yellow can he is brandishing. “Hey, you can add to it, if you want.” Focusing on his voice, she takes time to appreciate the contradiction; though his voice is gravelly and deep, his intonation is soft spoken and friendly, ruining the facade of his rough and edgy artist persona. She takes the can with shaking hands, watching as the wet drips of paint dilute into her skin and stain the white canvas of her hands with outlandish colours. “Shake the can first,” she barely pays attention to the helpful comment as she aggressively begins to shake the spray paint and apply pressure to the worn down canister. Her confidence radiates as she begins to mark the aged stone walls with colour and life, awakening the city around her to the joy of man-made art.
He watches her work, his dark pupils dilate as his glance does not diffuse from the stranger and her enthusiastic dance of creation. She is colour, the reds and blues and oranges he studies for hours on end. He is the exact opposite, though he embraces his lack of bright colour in the already over-saturated world around him. He is dark, a constant grey scale. A long black cloak of hair drapes over his face, prominent dark eyebrows clash with the mismatched pastel of his paler skin. If he didn’t bite his lips, there would be no colour in his face at all; they are torn to shreds, ribbons of red and pink visible from the constant battle against sharp canines.
“Done.” Her voice is shrill as she tries her hardest to regain her breath as she stretches to reach the top of her piece for the last time, adding the final touches to the masterpiece she had created against the canvas of the streets misused architecture. She Is colour, the light pastel pink in her cheek from her breathlessness and her hopeful sea-encompassing eyes as she watches the stranger examine her work, scanning his tired eyes over the intricate details of the interlocking colours. “You’re an artist?” He cocks his head in a questioning manner, his unkempt hair following the harsh motion of questioning as he stands below the graffiti. His work is solely white and grey, the quotes and tags he methodically prints onto the buildings become useless to him as he stares at the creation before him, wide eyed and slack jawed in awe. “Do people still call themselves artists?” She quips, winking sarcastically and taking a quick second to admire her own piece- the mass of flowers painted against the dull and decrepit office building made her heart speed up slightly. Not many things were permanent for her, people constantly left and nobody wanted to stay long enough for her to tell her story; to draw her feelings, as such. “Sunflowers are Van Gogh’s favourite flower. I feel like it’s a good homage.”
buttercups and their deceptions
I remember, as a child, people would often pluck buttercups from the ground and force them under my face. The saying went, that if the flower caused your skin to glow a strange yellow tinge, you enjoyed butter. This always struck me as odd. Didn’t every child like butter? What was the meaning of this fickle and questionable test when the answer would always be truth? Thinking back now, the idea of finding out the truth through a snatched up dead flower is a weird sentiment. However, I imagine how incredible it would be if these magical flowers were a constant truth revealer. You would be able to find out anything you wanted just by abducting a small part of nature and shoving it under someone's chin. “Did you cheat on me?” A yellow glow. “Did you steal the money?” The same yellow tinge. “Did you kill those people?” Yet again, a strange yellow warning light would appear. I find it funny thinking about this as an idea, as yellow is constantly thought of as the ‘happy’ colour. Sunshine. Sunflowers. Bumblebees. The universal antidepressant. I imagined what it would be like if this buttercup theory would be true, the colour yellow would be classed as the new EXIT sign. If only flowers could reveal people's secrets, life would be so much easier. No more suffering through paranoia of not ever knowing if you’ll truly get the real answers out of someone, as long as you could keep them in the same place for long enough for the flower to work its magic. It’s questionable, really, since the buttercup would often shine under my friends chin. She was lactose intolerant. Intolerant to a lot of things, actually, since she left her boyfriend as soon as she found out the truth about him sleeping with her sister. This begs the question of whether the truth can really be determined by anything. No buttercups, wishing wells or magic 8 balls could ever give me the answer I so long for. I don’t truly believe I’ll try and actively seek out the answer of whether I really am good enough for anybody. Maybe one day, out of chance, I’ll open a cliche fortune cookie and have a revelation about my entire life. This is the way I seem to live; relying on material items to tell me how to sort out my own problems and quickly sweeping them under the rug once other people stop worrying. There's a whole jungle living under that metaphorical rug now, I hear the screaming and roars of my problems every night before I go to sleep. As I stare up at my peeling white ceiling, counting pretend sheep as a way to cure my insomnia, I think about every issue in my life I neglected. More importantly, I consider how I could have dealt with them differently. My first ‘relationship’ ended because I took the last bean bag out of the toy shed. I was only 8, but yet for some reason this strange issue will keep me up until the early morning. My brain seems to work overtime, printing out copies of the same problems and filing them away with my more important memories. After a long time of suffering with my brain being my worst enemy, everything seems to melt together. It’s almost like my brain has scattered the folders into a paper shredded and allowed my memories to become broken fragments. Nice, happy holiday memories are chased down with horrendous memories of funerals and panic attacks. Nothing is ever simple for the over thinker. I conclude that my initial idea of buttercups giving me the truth would be a curse rather than a blessing. Maybe things will work out.
lunar solar
Sun, Bright, Eternal, Shining, Burning, Unrelenting, Breaking morning, peering around night, Watching, Illuminating, Orbiting Alabaster, Wise Moon
burns
burning
iciness laced his smile emotions would stockpile harsh words flood my brain strength, i could only feign his aim to only defile
may god be with you: part three
“You’re home late.” Rhett’s voice greeted him as soon as he turned his key in the door. Link sighed, exhaustion clear in his tone as he threw himself onto their leather sofa and whined. “I’m fucking exhausted.” His voice was barely more than a whisper as he buried himself in the pile of pillows next to him. Pain and adrenaline still ran through his body. He jumped slightly as he felt a large, cool hand run down the side of his back in a soft motion. “I missed you.” The older man whispered into Link’s ear, softly pressing a kiss to his neck as he began to work his hands into Link’s back, earning a groan of pleasure from the exhausted man. “Missed you too.” Link breathed out as he felt the tension of his muscles begin to release as his boyfriend expertly massaged his muscled shoulders. “You’re bleeding.” Rhett’s voice was cold as he pulled back from the sofa, standing over Link now. Link sat up quickly, confused as to what was happening as he stared up at his boyfriend. “What?!” Link exclaimed, pulling off his black shirt in a panic to reveal the wound on his back. “Hold still.” Rhett refused to look towards Link as he made his way back to the kitchen, bringing a forest green first aid kit with him as he hurried to the boys side. “I swear, I had no idea I was even injured.” Link complained, trying to reassure Rhett that the injury hadn’t caused him any pain. Link knew that his boyfriend constantly worried about Link whilst he was working, and the rare occasions where Link would end up with bad injuries would ruin Rhett’s trust and cause the pair to argue over the damage Link was causing to himself. Rhett huffed, not speaking as he pulled out rubbing alcohol from the kit. Link hissed in pain as the liquid seeped into the cut, attacking the exposed flesh and causing him to writhe in discomfort. “Shower.” Link looked up from the floor to meet Rhett’s eyes. Rhett marched into the hallway, carrying the first aid kit with him, not bothering to linger in the doorway to wait for Link to follow. Link sighed. Good deal. His boyfriend was pissed at him and he was injured. “What did I do to deserve this?” He sighed to himself, picking up his discarded shirt and moving to follow Rhett to the shower. “Come.” Rhett called from the cubicle. They had spent a ridiculous amount of money on their bathroom, a luxury jet bath and a shower cubicle for them to both fit into seemed to be the biggest necessity they had in mind when they purchased their place. Not that money was a problem, between the two of them they had more money than anybody they knew. Link listened to Rhett’s hums of appreciation as the taller man waited in the shower, water cascading down into the drain. He quickly pulled off the rest of his clothes, carefully avoiding the wound in his back as he opened the sliding door and stared in awe at his lover. He often forgot how beautiful he found Rhett to be. His golden hair, when wet, turned a soft brown colour and curled at the ends. Rhett’s skin was a tanned and rich, muscled arms and thighs made him God-like. “Are you going to just stare at me, or are you going to join me?” Link could hear the playfulness in his partners voice and jumped at the chance to enter the shower, closing the door hastily as he felt Rhett’s eyes bore into him. Rhett pushed Link in front of him into the showers stream, holding his small waist and stroking up and down Link’s torso. Link shuddered slightly as the warm shower water made contact with the open wound, causing him slight discomfort for the first few seconds. The pain was easily forgotten as he focused on the movements of Rhett’s hands all over him. Massaging his back with one hand and playing with Link’s overgrown black hair with the other. Link smiled as he felt Rhett’s breath next to his ear. “You need a haircut.” His words were soft as he admired the raven haired boy, taking shampoo between his large hands and massaging it into Link’s scalp. “Just relax.” Link smiled to himself, steadying his body weight with one hand as his knees began to feel weak again. He could not of asked for a better and more understanding partner to take care of him. “I love you.” Link muttered, reaching behind him to stroke his boyfriends muscled chest in affection. “I love you.” Rhett responded gruffly, kissing Link’s neck softly as he continued to rinse out the soap for him. Rhett stepped from the shower first, turning off the flow of water and leaving Link shivering in the sudden coldness of the bathroom. “Jerk.” Link called out, earning a genuine laugh from Rhett as he entered the bathroom with clean towels and bandages. “Stay still, this is going to hurt.” Rhett spoke softly as he applied an antibacterial ointment to the gaping wound, earning a slight yelp from Link. “I know baby, I know. It’ll be fine though.” Rhett’s soft words relaxed Link as he leant into his partners reassuring touch, allowing the bandage to be wrapped around with almost no hassle. “Good.” Rhett was pleased with himself as he helped Link from the shower into a clean cotton white towel. The smell of laundry detergent engulfed Link and he breathed in the clean smell. “I’m so lucky to have you.” He reached up to Rhett, planting a kiss on the taller man’s lips as he made his way to their bedroom. Rhett made Link’s life worth living, despite the constant arguments about their arrangement and lack of time spend with each other, Link knew that he would rather die than lose his lover.
may god be with you: part two
A balding man, startled by the sudden presence of the black haired stranger, jumped from the white sofa in panic and began to run towards the door. Link leaned against the door frame, no longer anxious or panicking as he allowed the adrenaline to sweep over him. He was the one in charge here. He laughed slightly as he watched the helpless man dart into the kitchen, searching through the draws for a weapon which he would deem appropriate to defend himself with. Link grinned at the naivety. People always chose the most defective objects. Small, pointed kitchen knives which would penetrate barely an inch if the man was lucky to get close enough to Link to damage him. “Cute.” He smirked, closing the distance between himself and the older man and leaning over him. “Go on then.” He whispered, his voice almost sensual as he gave his victim a moment to strike. The man stared at him, tears running down his old and wrinkled skin as he stared at the dark figure in a mixture of fright and confusion. “Who are you?” The man choked out, backing himself further into the corner as Link leant forwards. “No. You don’t get to ask questions. Nice try though.” Link smirked, cocking his head to the side. He loved this. The final moments before the kill where his victims were always so helpless that they would beg and do anything to survive. The constant “I’ll do whatever you say.” always fed Link’s ever growing ego, though he would never give in to the screams and pleads. He was there to do a job, not make friends and save lives. Occasionally he had weak moments or clients who he would feel remorse about killing, but he had no choice when it came to his job. Focusing back on the man in front of him, he looked him up and down. From his attire, Link could tell that the man had a lot of money. His shirt, unbuttoned and lazily pulled on, were the same designer brand as the jeans he was wearing. Even the accessories, a noticeably expensive wedding ring and gold chains around his neck. Link knew that the man had enough money to try and blackmail him with it. “Please. I’ll pay you double.” Link grinned, placing his knee against the man’s leg and pressing him into the corner even more. “Money doesn’t do it for me.” He winked, pushing his luck with the complete stranger. He loved to make them feel helpless. Watching the black holes of their pupils dilate in fear and their breath speed up as he closed distance between them. “Now, we can do this the easy way….” Link’s breath hitched as the older man grabbed a handful of his long black hair in an attempt to escape. He growled in anger, pressing the man back and holding the knife to the exposed throat of his victim. “Or, you know. I like it hard.” He grinned, not waiting a second longer as he quickly ran the blade against the man’s throat. The knife was nowhere near sharp enough to cut the artery, but the deep blood running from the cut made the man scream out in agony. “Oh come on sweetheart, play nice.” He grinned, licking the excess blood from his hands under the man’s panicked gaze. His own heart was beating faster every second, he had missed the thrill of the chase. Link hoisted himself up onto the kitchen counter as he watched the man run around the kitchen in a stressed frenzy, dripping blood all over the floor but making no attempt to run and get help or call the police as he accepted his demise. Link held up the gun to his own face, polishing the black metal exterior with his jacket as he relished in the pained screams of the man for a few seconds more. He looked down at the man who was now sprawled out in desperation on the floor and pulled the trigger of the gun in one quick motion. Though he was a killer, he wouldn’t call himself a monster. He saw no need for slow and painful death, no matter what the person had done. He sighed as he assessed the mess, the kitchen cupboards and white walls were now covered in mulberry red blood. Cleaning was his least favorite part of the job, why did people have to bleed so much? He jumped down from the counter, running a hand through his sweaty midnight black hair and wincing slightly as he felt the strands fall from the earlier pull. “Fucking disrespectful.” He spat, kicking the mans limp body in anger at his own suffering. The sweet noise of his ringtone began to blare from his phone as he finished collecting every cleaning product he could find to help to get rid of the stains. Quickly slipping his phone out of his back pocket, he checked the caller ID to see that it was his lover calling him. “He can wait.” Link sighed to himself, picking up a bottle of bleach and pouring it over the tiles in the kitchen. This was going to take him a while to clean.
may god be with you: part one
“I’ll be home in 10 minutes. Okay. Bye.” His voice was gruff as he ended the call and slid his iPhone back into his jean pocket. He sighed as he mechanically picked up the mop near the door and began to work on the white tiled floor. White strands quickly became stained with dark red as he mopped the remnants of spilled blood and flesh from the floor. Most of the vessel had already been taken care of, the remains scattered all over the kitchen floor were just from the struggle his client had given him. Normally he would finish a good work day at around 6 pm and make it home in time before Rhett would come home from the office, so that he would not be bombarded with questions about how his day was by his over-enthusiastic lover. This time was different. He had arrived late to the meeting spot; Locke Avenue in a small remote bar. The lighting had been dim and the bar was almost empty, which wasn’t surprising for 11am in the morning. A man clad in black had approached him at the bar and slid a sealed envelope over to him. Link had nodded, not saying a word as he tipped back the whisky, allowing the golden liquid to run into his blood and confuse his brain. He could rarely do the job sober. He clambered back into his beaten black Porsche, pulling on a pair of sunglasses as he set his navigation to the address provided. The taste of alcohol still stained his lips and caused his stomach to turn in rejection to the early morning intoxication. Light jazz music played from the cars almost broken old stereo as he drove, constantly checking the clock on the dashboard. His job was demanding and draining. The dark bags under his sky-encompassing eyes only aged the man, who could do without the added years as he approached 40. As he got out of his car, he stopped and leant against it for a second, appreciating the view of the house he was standing in front of. It was big, the tenants earned a decent amount of money through what he could only guess was a form of drug dealing and money laundering. The garden at the front of the house was neat, decorated with soulless pink flamingos; half of the paint had been corroded from rain water, making them seem even more depressing. Link could never explain to anybody why he chose this line of work, because he couldn’t even explain to himself. Through few strange connections in his time on the drugs scene, he had been coaxed into working for a company who would hire him to do their dirty work. He wouldn’t call himself a hit man. He had no training to be a hit man, and he had no desire to pretend to be the next James Bond. Link simply did what he had to do to survive, the money he made was good and the constant battle of his job kept him alert and fit. His boyfriend, who he had met when they were both young and very into taking LSD at sketchy concerts, had settled for the quiet life. He owned his own party planning business. A 9-5 job in his own office in the city, Rhett was more than happy to sweep Link’s job under the rug and pretend that life was perfectly normal. Nobody really questioned Link’s profession, most people they would meet would assume that the business was a joint partnership and would not press Link about his role. The gun in Link’s back pocket felt like it was made out of lead. His knees felt like they would buckle under the weight at any moment, though he knew his knees were weak from nerves rather than strain. Link shook himself, staring at the house to see that there was not a single car in the garage; meaning that only his client would be home. “Come on, Neal. You’ve done this one hundred times before. You’ve got this.” He marched his way to the door, resting his face against the splintering wooden entrance door as he composed himself. Expertly, he reached around to his back pocket and pulled out the gun, keeping it tucked in his jacket as he efficiently picked open the lock. The benefits to him being as light and nimble as he was meant that most of the time, people would not even realize that he had infiltrated their place until it was too late. Floorboards screamed under his feet as he slowly made his way into the mansion, delicately closing the door behind him. He was never one to make a loud and dramatic entrance, dramatization got him nowhere in his line of work and just made everything so much more challenging. Holding his breath and leaning against the flaking white walls, he could hear the older man’s breathing in the room next to him. He knew that all he had to do was go in there and take one killing shot, he could leave and pretend this didn’t happen. His long black hair hung slightly in his face, a constant reminder that he needed to take Rhett’s offer of a haircut once he had finished this job. He stepped right, centering himself in the middle of the doorway and bracing himself to pull open the door in one quick motion. Forcing bullets into the gun, he noticed that his gloved hands had began to shake slightly. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually killed somebody. Adrenaline pumped through his body, producing a high which was almost indescribable. Far better than any drug trip he had ever been on. The feeling of overwhelming power swept through the man as he kicked open the living room door in one easy blow.
shell
The morning intruded into the lair that was our bedroom stealthily. He was an expert in announcing his presence, trained to blind with his elegant rays of light. My sleep had already been interrupted by the obnoxious singing of the birds perched outside of our window. I wondered what could possibly be so important for them to discuss at 5am. I turned to face the window and glanced down at my boyfriend, who had someone found his way into our bed in what I could only imagine was another drunken state. He was stunning like this. Sleeping. The dust, illuminated by the rays of light, kissed his soft porcelain skin and rested on his angular cheekbones. His lips, pale yet plump and almost unknowing of the harsh words which were spoken from them at least once a day. His face, relaxed and innocent, rested against the black pillowcase. Long brown hair splayed out beneath him like a peacock stretching out his features in a proud stance. Though, he would never have the issue of trying to attract a mate. Anyone who did not care about themselves in the slightest would be attracted to him as though he was the other side of their magnet. I stretched and sighed to myself as I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and made my way down to the kitchen. The downstairs of the house was cold, the heating had been turned off during the night and the shock of the cold kitchen tiles against my bare feet made me shiver as I made my way to the kettle. Breakfast was never my favourite part of the morning. The complexity and rush of the whole ordeal made me feel sick. I would much rather wait until the afternoon to eat, where my head was clear and my body was full of caffeine. I stared at the coffee beans melting into the clean white mug, creating a liquid that would fill my needs of energy for the early morning hours. “Good morning.” His deep, flat voice startled me as I turned around to see him standing in the doorway. Now that he was standing under artificial light, it became easier to see the harsher details of his face. His cheekbones had sunk in more than usual, making him look sickly. Thick black stubble protruded from his chin, shadowing his jaw line and adding to his rough look. The bags under his eyes were dark and drew attention to his eyes- dark like muddy cess pools. He looked exhausted. His perfect lips were decorated with remnants of blood from the night before. I decided not to question him as I made my way to the fridge. The cold breeze hit my face as I hesitantly reached in and took the eggs from the fridge. He watched my every movement as I paced the kitchen, collecting the utensils I required. I cowered slightly under his unfaltering gaze, feeling as though I could make a mistake any second and add to the list of disappointing things he knew me for. The fire from the oven danced under my hands as I placed the pan on top. Orange and blue flames screamed out at me, desperate to lick my untainted skin with their painful burning tongues. I shivered as I felt his penetrative glare bore into my back as I turned back to the oven, listening to any small sound he made as he moved around the small kitchen, picking up the mugs I had left and aggressively throwing them into the sink. Every clatter of porcelain made my heart jump. Crack. I watched as the whites of the egg spread across the oiled pan, scattering in all different directions as though they were trying to escape the tormenting heat of the oil. I studied the egg cooking for perhaps too long, taking in every detail. The whites of the egg were fighters. They reacted to the hot oil with screams as it burnt them, pulling up from the pan and spitting tears of pain from the heat back out at me. The yolk, however. It sat, complacent and still, as the heat cooked it properly. No screams, no spitting, no reaction to the searing heat underneath it. Defeat. This was the moment I realised I was most like the yolk. My cooking time was running out. Soon, I was going to give into the heat and burn. Just like all of the other girls before me.
dulcis
always so wrapped up in the facade of aggression never glancing at others or second guessing yourself nobody else mattered i stumbled into your path only described best as a cold, dimly lit alley way “you’re sweet” the remark stuck for i had never had a sweet tooth and i had no intention of being sweet to the person who could devour my soul you always viewed me as sweet even when i had been through hell screaming at you pouring burning liquor your perception never faltered. dulcis.
we run
she said ‘run away with me’ and how i laughed as we sat on the roof of her apartment watching airplanes nosedive allowing escape to the lucky ones ‘run away with me’ her ideas unchanging as she tried to distract me from heaps of work piling though running away would solve this momentarily living the dream people yearned for ‘run away with me’ i glared at her her hope and wisdom unfaltering forever a childish demeanor her sense of freedom had never left never being tied down “what happens when we get tired of running?”
glass marbles
she watches me freckles lay across her cheeks attentive not a constellation a predator stalking prey they are glass marbles i am vulnerable irregular in pattern in the jungle of her mind unique and beautiful
her voice echoes she is captivating to watch a loud and resounding laugh almost extra-terrestrial forced yet enthusiastic she walks delicately false happiness hesitant to step too heavily it sounds like clanging pans like she has outstayed her welcome
she is cautious of attention.
merlot
He grinned, taking the merlot into a tall glass and watching the blood red liquid dance around. “You know,” He started, placing the glass down on the table and staring up at me. “I never used to be a fan of wine. Oh how time changes.” I looked up from my bright LCD screen of my phone to meet his glare. “Really.” Was the only response I could fathom. He was boring. Uninteresting to me. His stories were always the same, twisted slightly with new elements to make me want to listen to him repeat the same tales for the seven thousandth time. Never did I tell him this, I just sat quietly over the expensive cups of coffee he would buy me and nod whenever his sentence ended. He never asked me for my opinion. Loving the sound of his own voice, he could speak for hours without me giving any input. I tensed up slightly as he walked over to where I was hesitantly perched on the dining room chair, basking in the low light being supplied by the single lamp in the corner. He would always explain to me that he enjoyed his rooms dark, so that he could ‘focus’. I found the darkness overwhelming and irritating, it would always set me on edge. I viewed him as a monstrous creature,lurking in the darkness with the constant intent of pouncing on his unknowing prey. “What are you up to?” His words were cold and flat as they penetrated my thoughts, bringing me back to reality and causing me to jump slightly as I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck. Without words, I closed my phone's apps and placed it on the table. I had nothing to hide. Not that that mattered. He was smart, it probably took him 5 minutes at the most to crack my phone password the first night I passed out on his moth-eaten old sofa. All my thoughts were hidden away on anonymous accounts and blogs, posts he would never suspect me for. “ Nothing.”The word escaped my mouth as nothing more than a whisper, breaking my strong façade and showing my timidness. Even though I wasn't looking at him, I could tell he was smirking at my obvious display of worry. “Okay.” I could hear his smile. The smell of old rum and wine was pungent in his breath and it burnt my eyes as the scent danced towards me, ripping away at my sanity. “Tell me, Clarissa. What do you think of our living arrangement?” This was not a question. He was demanding an answer and I had not had time to rehearse these lines in the mirror. He was good at this, catching me off guard when I least expected it. I took a long drink of my now cold tea, bracing the disgusting taste as it trickled down my throat; I was just thankful that it was there to buy me some time. What did I think of the living arrangement? “Really, Mr….” “Hey now, we agreed to keep first name basis, remember?” His voice was not as kind as the sentence he spoke, his tone flat yet almost mocking. “Yes.” I mumbled under my breath, losing my train of thought and only being prompted to carry on when I realised he was still staring at me with his head cocked inquisitively, waiting for my answer. “Luka. I could not be more grateful for everything you have done for me. Honestly.” Lies. Lies. Lies. I hated this house. I hated him. Everything had gone wrong. “Oh. That’s what I like to hear.” His voice was smug, and I shuddered slightly as I heard him refill his glass. It would only take a few more before he started to change into the violent and intimidating man I knew him as- in real life and in my nightmares. How could I possibly tell my mother what I had got myself into? I opened my phone again to distract my wondering mind, trying to focus on something other than my heart rattling against my rib cage, screaming to get out of this hell I had forced myself into. “I think…..I'm going to go to sleep.” His voice was slurred and confused as he walked back over to my dining chair, his large strong hands resting on the back of it and brushing against my bare back. The skin on skin contact made my stomach turn and I had to fight the aggressive urge to throw up my dinner right in front of him. I swallowed, looking up from my phone and turning slightly to meet his gaze as I plastered on a fake smile. It shocked me that this was the first time I had really paid attention to him since he had returned home from work. He was still wearing his black suit, the tie now loose as he has undid the first few buttons of his finely pressed white shirt. His face was scruffy and it was clear he hadn't shaved in days. “Goodnight, Luka.” I winced as he leant down to kiss the top of my head, our relationship was never black and white. Today in particular, it seemed to be coloured a rich merlot. “Sleep well, darling.” He smiled, taking his glass with him as he made his way to the hallway. The slam of the kitchen door did not make me jump but instead allowed me to collapse in exhaustion onto the dining room table. Finally, I could relax without being worried about being wrong or angering him. Serenity swept over me as I leant against the cold wood of the table, finally allowing my tired eyes to close in a delicate embrace between my eyelids.
carolina sunset
love for him hit harder than expected he was a protected piece of art work observed and loved by thousands of strangers chiselled features carved like an old greek god deep blue eyes encompassed the seas spirit face animated in strong emotion we watch the north carolina sunset he would bask in the illuminating rays not knowing his beauty outshone the sun unfaltering passion, itching desire though his words were never spoke with caution his flame always burning like a wildfire but he was surely my sweetest downfall