The light from the stained glass window shines brightly on the crystal glasses, creating a dancing prism show just for her. Her fingertips trace the smooth marble, enjoying the cool, hard pressure against her skin. This is her sanctuary. The scents of citrus and green tea fill the air. After filling one of the crystal glasses with water, she swallows 3 Aspirin, breathes deeply and smiles.
She loves the crisp clean lines of this room, all white and beige, spa-like save for the splash of color in the one stained-glass window, a treasure from their honeymoon in Italy. Every inch of this room has been designed for her, each tile hand-picked, every towel perfectly monogrammed. She sighs as she watches the dancing prism and follows its shimmers up to the glass, mostly red, and a stark contrast to the room.
With the grace of a ballerina, she lifts onto her toes, admires the reflection of the curves of her naked body, the muscles of her legs. A happy pirouette later, she sweeps her hair up off her neck and ties it into a simple knot at the crown of her head.
The room could use a little more red.
A smirk visits her lips. Maybe a bouquet of roses or some of those lobelius flowers she'd noticed recently at the florist would be nice. The crystal vase casting the biggest prism would be a perfect container.
Her face belies a perfectly serene composure as she slips one foot and then the other through the dense white foam into the blistering heat, her skin brightening pink in seconds as it becomes submerged beneath the surface. This is heaven. She sinks deep into the silky waters, closes her eyes, and breathes in the citrusy scents she loves. Her bright red toenails play peek-a-boo for a moment, tickling the light prisms dancing on the wall. The sight brings a bright smile to her face as she silently muses on the contrast between her pale white flesh and the cherry red polish.
Pressing her palms firmly into the flesh of her thighs, she massages the bubbles around her legs, feeling their smooth texture before tracing her fingertips lightly across her belly and caressing the undersides of her breasts. Everything is perfect. She reaches for the over-sized crystal goblet, nearly filled with her favorite red. The sips will be slow. This is a moment to be savored.
There are 18 tiny scored white bars - hers, of course - and 10 blue oblong tablets, the letters "OC" deeply engraved, complements of the street. One by one, they are swallowed, and she sips her wine easily between each, enjoying each lasting moment. She leaves an inch of red to linger in the bottom of the goblet, thinking how perfect a picture she is painting.
The final stroke of a painting is the most difficult and most beautiful. Without it, a portrait is incomplete, but one must know when to stop. She has dreamed of this and knows her plan is perfect. As her body begins to slow, reacting to all it has enjoyed the past few minutes, she slides the shiny silver blade from the white marble ledge surrounding her. For a moment, she hesitates.
Wrist or leg?
The world is already fading, but the final strokes must be painted. Steady but weak, she slides the blade from the crease of her wrist, in a smooth line to her inner elbow. It won't be enough for the picture, she knows, so she slides the shiny silver beneath the water. With a blissful sigh, the blade plunges it deep into her left inner thigh. She draws a line diagonally toward her hip bone with surgical precision and marvels at the quickness with which she is surrounded by red. With her lips broadening into a knowing smile, she takes a deep inhale of rusty citrus and savors the final stroke.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Sad Throne - 10thDoM Suicide Seat
I am a third party to my own life. My consciousness is dissolved in your presence. Far or near, your voice makes me melt or puddle, soften or crumble. It makes me curl into myself, into nothingness, giving up my soul, my integrity, my grit, my self. Heartbroken is nothing compared to soul-broken. It's so dark in here. I can't see past your view...
The sheer whites billow effortlessly toward her, brushing against her calves as she sits, chin resting awkwardly in hand, looking solemnly out the window. Her gaze, fixated on nothing in particular, is pure stillness. She is a statue. Her blank facade has been observed and reflected on the faces of every person who dares to meet her eyes. Wisps of hair vibrate in the easy breeze. A few strands plaster themselves in the slick of sweat across her brow.
I am the new face of those people so broken they can no longer be approached and offered a warm touch or a gentle, reassuring embrace because they are too far gone. The thought of warmth and comfort has become less than a memory. It was a beautiful illusion.
She's completely aware and numbed all the more for it. She is a shell, hollow, empty, ravaged by the masochistic tendencies of her own heart. She is soft now, pliable. The so soft skin covering her arms and legs, now crisscrossed with fading white lines, tally marks of controlled pain. Pain she can cause, pain she can control, pain she can take.
I am hard, unmovable, stuck in my own puddle. I am a stranger in the mirror, a pathetic excuse for everything I ever believed I was.
She knows what she is, her own deviant thoughts and devices. She knows when you look her in the eye and lie to her every day and still feels guilt and responsibility even where there may be no cause. She sits idly on her chair, listlessly staring at blank walls, barely aware of the tickle on calves. She wonders what happened to you to make you like you are. On the outside, so sweet and gentle, putting on a masterful facade for the world, for your girls to see, to draw them in. On the inside, you can't relax, you're constantly in defensive stance, and your caring for others is nothing more than superficial dribble. She sinks further into darkness.
I am dying. It is death at my own hands, but I'll blame you nonetheless, as I sit here on my throne, my suicide seat.
The sheer whites billow effortlessly toward her, brushing against her calves as she sits, chin resting awkwardly in hand, looking solemnly out the window. Her gaze, fixated on nothing in particular, is pure stillness. She is a statue. Her blank facade has been observed and reflected on the faces of every person who dares to meet her eyes. Wisps of hair vibrate in the easy breeze. A few strands plaster themselves in the slick of sweat across her brow.
I am the new face of those people so broken they can no longer be approached and offered a warm touch or a gentle, reassuring embrace because they are too far gone. The thought of warmth and comfort has become less than a memory. It was a beautiful illusion.
She's completely aware and numbed all the more for it. She is a shell, hollow, empty, ravaged by the masochistic tendencies of her own heart. She is soft now, pliable. The so soft skin covering her arms and legs, now crisscrossed with fading white lines, tally marks of controlled pain. Pain she can cause, pain she can control, pain she can take.
I am hard, unmovable, stuck in my own puddle. I am a stranger in the mirror, a pathetic excuse for everything I ever believed I was.
She knows what she is, her own deviant thoughts and devices. She knows when you look her in the eye and lie to her every day and still feels guilt and responsibility even where there may be no cause. She sits idly on her chair, listlessly staring at blank walls, barely aware of the tickle on calves. She wonders what happened to you to make you like you are. On the outside, so sweet and gentle, putting on a masterful facade for the world, for your girls to see, to draw them in. On the inside, you can't relax, you're constantly in defensive stance, and your caring for others is nothing more than superficial dribble. She sinks further into darkness.
I am dying. It is death at my own hands, but I'll blame you nonetheless, as I sit here on my throne, my suicide seat.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Home - 10thDoM Silence Lies Broken
Whittling indifference down to nothing, she shrugs lightly by the moonlight and stars, looking up, gazing blankly into where nothing can be felt. Would it matter if she never cared at all, or would great things cease to be? In that moment, isn't it amazing how the moonflowers glow when the skies are darkened but the streetlamps have yet to click on? The crickets whisper the sounds of summer while the shock of little league lights across the creek stream break through the lies we tell ourselves in the lonely silence through the rickety screen door.
She sleeps in too big tees with her oscillating fan at her feet. She dreams of those times with dirt on her knees. A tear on a pillow dries quick to the cotton.
Sky scrapes black moldy swirls through a cloud-washed, light-speckled night. The TV flickers reruns of Patty Duke; curtains billow in and out from the breeze through the back door screen. Be steady, girl. Lift your head to the night skies into dreams of better days to come. That smell of summer air, crisp with sweat and sun, lingers aimlessly on the tip of the tongue. Lips chapped in winter winds now burned in summer's sun. This is home, this is where I must return.
She sits now, barely aware when the silence is broken by the screaming through the wall. This time, it's not so bad. This time, they're just loud.
Serendipitous flight. Am I running away or running home? A little of both, I suppose. I've learned this past year that water will never hold me up, water will never show truth, water will never be steady and still. In it, she will drown, she will puddle, she will become the lesser being he always predicted she would. It's an addiction, that water. And it has its own pathetic addictions. They're both addicted to pain - causing it, feeling it, being in it.
She's there, imagining, wishing, sleeping in a place where everyone but her knows the silence lies broken.
She sleeps in too big tees with her oscillating fan at her feet. She dreams of those times with dirt on her knees. A tear on a pillow dries quick to the cotton.
Sky scrapes black moldy swirls through a cloud-washed, light-speckled night. The TV flickers reruns of Patty Duke; curtains billow in and out from the breeze through the back door screen. Be steady, girl. Lift your head to the night skies into dreams of better days to come. That smell of summer air, crisp with sweat and sun, lingers aimlessly on the tip of the tongue. Lips chapped in winter winds now burned in summer's sun. This is home, this is where I must return.
She sits now, barely aware when the silence is broken by the screaming through the wall. This time, it's not so bad. This time, they're just loud.
Serendipitous flight. Am I running away or running home? A little of both, I suppose. I've learned this past year that water will never hold me up, water will never show truth, water will never be steady and still. In it, she will drown, she will puddle, she will become the lesser being he always predicted she would. It's an addiction, that water. And it has its own pathetic addictions. They're both addicted to pain - causing it, feeling it, being in it.
She's there, imagining, wishing, sleeping in a place where everyone but her knows the silence lies broken.
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