Morphine
Her- Moshpits and Miniskirts
Tonight is the night. The night of Homecoming up at school. The night he’s coming to my home.
The sky is as black as it can be in this putrid light polluted town and the stage is set on the tennis court. Samuel is in the shower and I’m putting on my makeup… Samuel is in the shower.
Samuel is in the shower and I am unashamed to say I wish I were too. More I wish we were on a train in Europe while the sky dumps rain upon us. We don’t speak these languages. Just our own. And we stay in hotels, not hostels... too many horror flicks have gone that way.
We’ll see cemeteries in Ireland, tourist spots in Italy, museums in France, Jesus in Spain. We’ll fake Catholicism in the Holy See and visit the Bailey and Parliament (on the fifth of November, of course), and the plentitude of Vampire Eccentrics in Romania.
We’ll be happy.
I can’t wait.
The doorbell rings are we’re in New Jersey again.
Samuel shakes the water out of his hair like a puppy and I pretend to be mad that he got me wet. Then I realize…
We are happy.
At exactly eight-fifteen, the guests of ‘notre boum noire’ begin arriving. The band is setting up on stage. They will not start playing until eight forty-five when Mrs. Jaime will lock the door and refuse to answer. I don’t put up with that fashionably late bullshit.
They are visions, my guests. They sparkle. They are glam. They buzz. They fade. They are lovely in their blacks, their violets, their rubies and sapphires and emeralds. They are gorgeous, even, in their white. Masquerade or cabaret, I can’t decide, but the harlequin is undeniable.
Samuel and I rule them. We are the conductors of their Hazardous Symphony, in our wedding garb. It is indeed worthy of our wedding ceremony. We tell them to dance and they do. We ask them to sing and they are a magnificent chorus. We rule them.
By eight forty-five, he hasn’t arrived. Mrs. Jaime locks the door and we move our morbid congregation outside, thanking God that I didn’t hold my breath.
“Okay, this is one we picked up at Lollapalooza. I’m sure you’ve heard it somewhere.” Says the lead singer at eleven thirty-seven. Samuel is across the lawn with my favorite gothic Lolita girl, Melanctha and I stand by myself, though not alone as the band brings the music pumping. “I wanna girl with lips like morphine!”
The guests scream and move like snakes with sex appeal. Twisting, bending, slithering, sliding. All are shiny. All are smooth.
I am kissed with a sight unexpected. He is standing in front of me with his palm upturned and black rimmed eyes on mine. I hesitate to take it, and he grabs my waist, spinning me along with the rest.
Am I happy?
Or am I back in the strait jacket he had me in for five years, struggling, trying to Houdini my way out?
Am I pleased?
Or am I pissed he actually had the gall to show up, let alone touch me?
Am I happy?
The sky is as black as it can be in this putrid light polluted town and the stage is set on the tennis court. Samuel is in the shower and I’m putting on my makeup… Samuel is in the shower.
Samuel is in the shower and I am unashamed to say I wish I were too. More I wish we were on a train in Europe while the sky dumps rain upon us. We don’t speak these languages. Just our own. And we stay in hotels, not hostels... too many horror flicks have gone that way.
We’ll see cemeteries in Ireland, tourist spots in Italy, museums in France, Jesus in Spain. We’ll fake Catholicism in the Holy See and visit the Bailey and Parliament (on the fifth of November, of course), and the plentitude of Vampire Eccentrics in Romania.
We’ll be happy.
I can’t wait.
The doorbell rings are we’re in New Jersey again.
Samuel shakes the water out of his hair like a puppy and I pretend to be mad that he got me wet. Then I realize…
We are happy.
At exactly eight-fifteen, the guests of ‘notre boum noire’ begin arriving. The band is setting up on stage. They will not start playing until eight forty-five when Mrs. Jaime will lock the door and refuse to answer. I don’t put up with that fashionably late bullshit.
They are visions, my guests. They sparkle. They are glam. They buzz. They fade. They are lovely in their blacks, their violets, their rubies and sapphires and emeralds. They are gorgeous, even, in their white. Masquerade or cabaret, I can’t decide, but the harlequin is undeniable.
Samuel and I rule them. We are the conductors of their Hazardous Symphony, in our wedding garb. It is indeed worthy of our wedding ceremony. We tell them to dance and they do. We ask them to sing and they are a magnificent chorus. We rule them.
By eight forty-five, he hasn’t arrived. Mrs. Jaime locks the door and we move our morbid congregation outside, thanking God that I didn’t hold my breath.
“Okay, this is one we picked up at Lollapalooza. I’m sure you’ve heard it somewhere.” Says the lead singer at eleven thirty-seven. Samuel is across the lawn with my favorite gothic Lolita girl, Melanctha and I stand by myself, though not alone as the band brings the music pumping. “I wanna girl with lips like morphine!”
The guests scream and move like snakes with sex appeal. Twisting, bending, slithering, sliding. All are shiny. All are smooth.
I am kissed with a sight unexpected. He is standing in front of me with his palm upturned and black rimmed eyes on mine. I hesitate to take it, and he grabs my waist, spinning me along with the rest.
Am I happy?
Or am I back in the strait jacket he had me in for five years, struggling, trying to Houdini my way out?
Am I pleased?
Or am I pissed he actually had the gall to show up, let alone touch me?
Am I happy?
♠ ♠ ♠
Kisses for Kill Hannah! They're really the ones that started this. ^_^