Thursday, March 31, 2011

So That's How They Do It :: short story

I wrote this on 15 July 2010. I'm running out of time right now but I really think this is worth posted on my blog ASAP. Enjoy.


I don’t understand how this works. How someone could portray such an intricate, chaotic mixture of disturbances into art. I know art. I can write. I can paint. And I can certainly draw. But the intimacy of the distant attachment, the sense of emptiness when I leapt over the erotic chasm between me and the memory, it... no words could describe, no colours could portray, and no lines could show.
I guess, the best I could do is try.

The colour to this exciting new escapism is blue and red. A dollop of innocence in between, barely showing, but one could see that it’s there, if one was there in my mind to watch how it replays at the back of my mind. The lines would shape itself into the shape of a spider lily, standing out between the sensual kiss and the childish laughter. Most probably it’d be burned once it’s done.

It would not last long, if it was to be written in poetic words. Maybe it will be a hit for a few days, weeks, or who knows – years, but someday, like any other poems I’ve written, the thousands of words will weave itself into a quilt, sewn without mercy through the cracks and wrinkles of my young skin. It will be there, yelling out every single day with the voice of my sarcastic conscience, and it will be a misery.

Disturbed? Yes it’s supposed to be, my love. It’s how you should feel when you’re me today. You open your eyes in the dead of the night, when it dawned upon you that your fingers and your heart is trembling, horribly addicted to him. You reach out into the dark, hoping that he was there to entwine his fingers between yours, smiling down at you. But when only the cold night breeze meet your hungry skin, laughing at your miserable trembling little body, you’ve realized how you’ve been played by your own game. You’re winning though.

Yes I’m winning over it. It wasn’t a miracle. It was experience. It was what to be expected when you hunt down something dangerous like him. Ah, another wolf. Yes, he is a wolf. What is there to expect from a world like mine; twisted fairy tale of a little girl in a red riding hood fucking wolves like there’s no tomorrow? There’s no carpenter to cut me out of his gut. I don’t want anyone to cut me out of him. I want him to do just that, swallow me up whole and lie on his back on the bed, relieved from his hunger, but sad to know that after all of this ends there will be no meal as delicious as me.
Looking back, I did it. So that’s how they do it.

1 comment:

a penny for your thoughts