Shut Up
A pillow-weight catastrophe
Irises that reflect the dying green tremble as her collar dampens more and more to ruin the fabric, as I see the color of her eyes( or maybe it is her mascara) leak on everything, to be smeared on her lips and on her eyebrows and on her nose by five digits of different hands, rough, violent, as she is in fact....
My ears hurt, being fed horrible wails and intricate proffanities(belonging to a mutt that's just been hit by a truck, maybe, but not you, Em) and I try to block the deafening cries with my palms, but I abort every attempt as I remember my palms are see-through and pass-through...
My knees buckle underneath me as I see a tuft of black,black hair, fading to a dirty blonde (or maybe it's the other way around), shake in the same manic rhythm as the world seems to be doing and I hear muffled curses that only that creative bastard could think of; his quivering digits grasp the scratchy blanket draped over my cold, dead legs and tighten as the doctor continues with his condolences.
But I'm empty now; I can't cry because I'm not sure I still have fluids left to waste, I can't smile or frown because my skin hurts, or the lack of a skin hurts...
I settle my transparent bones on the windowsill and continue to watch the onset; Violet is...shaking terribly, as a freezing skeleton that was left on Earth to die alone.
Gray watches the man (that was supposed to bring them good news) stoically, averting his eyes to watch the straight line of the cardiac monitor from time to time, as if to check if the doctor is just fucking with him...
And Matt is just as unresponsive, trying to swallow something he knows is too big to go in one try.
Smoke tangles around my neck to constrict my airways and send me into a temporary state of Nirvana, brings my eyelids over my eyes and my upper lip over my bottom one, in the best content expression I can manage without my face muscles working properly; my eyelids flutter without my consent and I realize that it's not my eyelids that block the view to my cold body, but somebody's palms.
"Are you ready to go?", a deep, deep voice whispers in my ear, sending chills down my visible spine.
I nod, unable to use my absent vocal chords; the palms slip from over my eyes and ,instead of the damp and pained faces of the planets that used to revolve around a dying sun, I find myself looking at the three specters that have haunted me since Lorelei died, oh so many years ago.
"Death is only a beginning for the wicked"
My ears hurt, being fed horrible wails and intricate proffanities(belonging to a mutt that's just been hit by a truck, maybe, but not you, Em) and I try to block the deafening cries with my palms, but I abort every attempt as I remember my palms are see-through and pass-through...
My knees buckle underneath me as I see a tuft of black,black hair, fading to a dirty blonde (or maybe it's the other way around), shake in the same manic rhythm as the world seems to be doing and I hear muffled curses that only that creative bastard could think of; his quivering digits grasp the scratchy blanket draped over my cold, dead legs and tighten as the doctor continues with his condolences.
But I'm empty now; I can't cry because I'm not sure I still have fluids left to waste, I can't smile or frown because my skin hurts, or the lack of a skin hurts...
I settle my transparent bones on the windowsill and continue to watch the onset; Violet is...shaking terribly, as a freezing skeleton that was left on Earth to die alone.
Gray watches the man (that was supposed to bring them good news) stoically, averting his eyes to watch the straight line of the cardiac monitor from time to time, as if to check if the doctor is just fucking with him...
And Matt is just as unresponsive, trying to swallow something he knows is too big to go in one try.
Smoke tangles around my neck to constrict my airways and send me into a temporary state of Nirvana, brings my eyelids over my eyes and my upper lip over my bottom one, in the best content expression I can manage without my face muscles working properly; my eyelids flutter without my consent and I realize that it's not my eyelids that block the view to my cold body, but somebody's palms.
"Are you ready to go?", a deep, deep voice whispers in my ear, sending chills down my visible spine.
I nod, unable to use my absent vocal chords; the palms slip from over my eyes and ,instead of the damp and pained faces of the planets that used to revolve around a dying sun, I find myself looking at the three specters that have haunted me since Lorelei died, oh so many years ago.
"Death is only a beginning for the wicked"