Cherry Lips Addict(ion)

Everywhere I'd trudge these unlasting grounds and rainbow horizons I'd see them.

Dolls.

Pretty, light air-headed plastic fleshless perfection walking on legs, carrying those glossy dead eyes. With perfectly sculpted skull decorated with nauseatingly artificial red lips, spread out in skeleton grins and pseudo pouts, ready to kiss and suck at the smallest gesture...

They were everywhere. Within the arms of little girls, between the thighs of pretty boys or beauty queens; I saw them all the time. At work, on TV, even under my own roof and treasured within my eyeballs.

Easy to toy with, hard to let go of, they were; but nevertheless... they frightened me out of this impure mind.
The one laying asleep at home terrified me the most; how it sits still in its reside all day motionless... until night time falls. Until it creeps closer to me wanting the warmth sleep drains from its almost weightless body; when its lips close cradling mine with burnt longing on the cold tongue swimming in red and dark.

I had a doll of my own for sure.

He was my doll.

He had those glassy eyes; the ones that would chase me all day with relentless glazed stares, unaware and ecstasy-injected. Only in the obscurity of the night they'd move, hungry and yearning for the infinite body-heat provided within my laden bed.

Bert McCracken was one hell of a doll.

Scary, incredibly eerie at times but ever so sensual when it comes to pleasing his cravings. The dense day-blue eyes morph into a most mortifying black when night slaughters day, all that reflects off of them now is pure need and want.
...The wide devilish smile stretched across his lips threw it all in the open to be frank. Slapped across his face and embodied within his pupils, a mischievous glow kissed his features every time he'd smile.

Bert was my doll; my favorite odd plaything; and I was more than fine with that.

He'd lie around all his waking time, doing nothing but swimming in oceans of delusional waves induced by the crushed bony dirt he'd inhale like fucking oxygen; almost within every inch of this apartment; in every corner scattered like powdered death, living under his fingernails and liquefied under the shell of his brain.
Immobilized by literal highs, his strings were left tangled on the floor like disposed threads of blackened silk, for stray legs to trip over and caring hearts to weave and attach back to his limp ends again.

Glass blue eyes would roll and growl whenever I'd attempt to sew the broken parts together as they lay untouched and unmoving on the floor, trails of shredded smiles and crumbled clothes swarming the floor that had seen horrors enough to burn acid holds into concrete walls.
Dolls aren't puppets, they don't have strings, only threads keeping them from falling apart; just to be thrown around like the under-stuffed masses of cloths and dead shapeless insides they are.

Trying to get him to be alive; to live was... problematic, hard almost impossible; he wasn't a wooden boy; but only composed of pretty silken and burlap rags; finely woven, yet rough; bluntly hurtful when approached unalert and unaware.

Just another innocent doll... you'd think.
Until you get close.

Pallid ivory-glazed skin and gold-rooted waterfalls of black would strangle those glass-dead coated outlets to inside the blue waves crushing and battling with the still body.

He was my doll.
That's why he's hidden.

Little naive girls would flaunt the objects of their lifeless pride to equally naive youth as they mother, adhering their tiny little pulsating hearts to dressing and undressing those soft hidden plastic smile.
Girls are different than boys with their dolls.

Fairly different.

Girls mother, boys love their dolls. Even though they break and crash them down down and down and repair and count, they love them.
Adore the perfectly shaped crescent glistening upon those eyes, caress and kiss artificially scented locks and admire the grotesquely angular-lines perfection of wispy hips and blade-thin ribs.
Boys like us -not him- cherished our lovable acid drinking dolls; throatless, unable to speak, only to kiss.

He was high high all the time, stuck behind walls of sheer bubble-surface barriers of ill-patterned unlasting doses of color-cursed ecstasy.
Even though those crystal subtle blues were high, above all sanity and reason, they were mine. The doll-eyed soul crouching underneath was mine to cherish, dress and undress.
Mine.

When day, and the sun's grin, would die and clutch away its bloody hairs, he'd slip next to me, hands probing under skin-tight clothes, reaching, searching and longing for bodily heat.
No words involved, he'd let that wide cheeky smile lying beneath those lividly joyous storms of blue, break into my own eyes -hazel and sleep-drenched- and sugar-coat them with devilish playful kisses.
The toy with the beating heart and black waterfalls strangling breathing blue would love me back.

Our pretty hung-over toys are what we want to be; what we hate to be; happy. Beaten down, arms or hearts missing they're happy, with peach blush pink kissing those stretched out grins.
Drawn out blood-red lay, tarnishing his lips as ripples of careless quakes shook and spilled from his chest onto mine as skin slammed against fragile disposable lust, dangling from a ripped faded T-shirt and staining acid-washed jeans hung on angular hips.

Always exploding into those roses of sun-deprived pale, he'd lay there afterwards; posing into sleep like a doll does. Eyes shut withering into my arms, full and loving as that horn-rimmed smile cuts into my chest and heart. All reflected in the black chipped nail polish peeled into his frail shoulders as ruby red babies trickled in tears against white.
Starry spiked sayings would shush my eyes every morning as I abandon the worn out toy, splayed out and drunk in droplets of nightly slurs beyond his eyelids.

Thus days rolled, grinding the edges of his blues, sanding the dead glass to unseen pupils and heartless heartless corneas; bloodshot and oozing ghosts of killer lovesick verses.

I had to leave my heart locked within his cotton-infested chest until I returned back to this breach of an abode, tucked away and showered with cracks, lavished with burdens and errors split from the outside's puss-colored wounds.

Nights rained and poured aimless fucks and heavy-lidded slumber.
While at days, bright burning days, more dolls kissed my sight; more cherry lipped empty-headed contractions drained out of every harbored sign of humanity.
Marionette puppets, pretty shiny Barbies and glamorized action figures, all controlled by mastermind puppeteers or crystal-hearted boys and green-minded girls.

No words involved, as always. Only gusts of heart-burns of hungering, storming and tossing aside the heaps of steel strings, stinging and slashing at tender hands and slick fingers.

The stubbly man -doll- of mine had nothing to do but guard my cracked heart; it was all his.
Envy could wipe it bitter self upon his lips occasionally and he'd make sure I'd taste it, know it, recognize it. Thus, consequently, he made sure that every fiber of my existence stayed away from all the other pretty toys... especially cherry-lipped dolls.

Cherry, cherry, scarlet carmine lips would kiss my cheeks but at night, powder blanch lips took over the show.
Magenta lips were amputated and tossed in the exile of the room then I'd see his hands... submerged in deathly doused rouge clots.

Dolls...
Are such scary scary things.
They bring us to our knees, they entrap out mindless hearts, they shackle their big doll-eye pupils to our faux shook-up egos.
Maybe at the end they're toying with us.

Mine always kiss me away from crimson and amber-eyed racing beats, grasping at my hips and neck; draping his loose sunken lip-prints around the tendons rummaging my arms and back.
No words were involved alright, but his acrid thoughts; those frenetic restraints betrothed upon us ever so vigorously; were the cause that this doll was the only valuable thing in this quasi-airless rat hole.

Bert was my doll; placid, languid, yet, dexterously sating and powder-lipped.
And nocturnal; daylight dead glass blue and nightly terrifying livid beats. Fair and black nail polish sunken into his shoulders, still floating in frozen ruby red offspring.

Boys like us love their dolls; we do. Heads filled with smoke and delusions, violently trick us into loving them and caring. We don't care for inanimate objects; only for blue and violet metal objects and cold hearts to warm up and mould at night.
They grasp our tired cores and cling to them; those glass-dead gems and dead soft finger tips. Deep, deep, deep opal multicolored mutilated crushable crushed ribs.
Vain sweet scents that molest your sense and cripple your logic to extort your every emotion in the shape of plain white fatal dust shooting to your brain; shooting to his brain and queasy word-vomit fingers and pens.

He didn't let me play dollies with him at night; when the sun dies. Ha, no. His knotted smiles were arrogantly alive and un-blue. Quiet smiles, haughty quiet; they just slip red perished lace through our shut lips.

McCracken did exactly that. Crawls to me and tells me not to give him away; that he was mine forever on the hallow shelves of my heart. Where I'd always dust him; only him.
The scary hair-risingly perfect doll; rejected by most other pretty dolls and toys; only to find itself between my arms and in a daze.

My, my, my doll. All, all mine. No-one touch, love this piece of this stitched-up affection and sand-paper eyes.
Mine, mine, mine; all over the shelves of my living dreams; my lovable unwanted doll. Obsessive dead blues, mine.
Play with and dabble in those waves of turquoise tangents and punctures of blended rag-doll tethers, binding his wide-eyed guilty smiles.
The plaything was playing with me; out stretching and re-wiring the blatant sentiments pouring and smearing my eyelashes shut.
Imaginary subtle kisses of dust are wiped away with each breezy tender blow of care that'd trickle and rain on his lips and repose him back into my ribs where he returns my heart for the night; after the steam-hot lust for cherry red burn the edges of the supple ballerina tips of my fingers as they exhibit themselves kissing other glassy feather-light blues.

Flesh pink tickles with envy, envy, cruel envy whenever fruit-saturated scents, graceful like youthful ballet toes, seem to trail from my sin-soaked clothing. Envy, envy, jade-green envy would slide out as blood-curdling glares that can peel your skin off with such ease, such malice, such... such greed.

Dolls have a right to claim their masters, right?
... Right?

Such despair, such pitiful despair leaked from those thoughts of mine, floating and sinking back into lip-gloss shades of rogue sewed up by that stale odor of mercury-dressed hunger tasted from his lips.
Punch-drunk laughs shone scary burdened apathy draped across his lips and heavy lashes...

This doll didn't like to be played with; it liked to play.

Play cruel, intoxicating addictive games; games with rotating hips and brushing lips. Tied down to the ribs were his malice-grappled touches, the chuckles rocking within his lungs and lulling his conscience to its unlasting demise.

Oh and if it knew... if it know about the boastful cherry lips that haunted this deceptive mind... the only cherry lips this heart would staple would be the ones stuck to this face, drenched with bleeding satin cells, adorned with crooked shattered page-white teeth sunken in a torn pool of saliva and shrieking mindless dwindling pink imploding to purple.

He keeps robbing my will; hiding it far away with the lonely skeletons, rotting and joking together in the corner, under the undusted layers of forgetfulness and mortal inadequacy; and I never mustered up the courage to retrieve it again; not from between those carcasses of dead dolls... dangling eyes, fading washed out faces and scarred spines. Scenes you can't dwell regarding how heart-shattering they are; doll or master.

Details dissolved as time rode the backs of those sulking skeletons and varnished wooden cheeks; dead pallid flower petals resembled in cheeks and clothes more like a festival of welted colors, found on the saddest stabbed harlequin. Along with the pearly finger bones of his hand, my no's and not's sat writhing within the suffocating grasp of the palms of his cut up fists; hiding them away; hiding and shielding.

Fragrant like waterfalls of black was the night; aggressive, chaotic and all in one bed, between four limbs and two rotating hips fringing desire and control like beads of sweat hung in rows of glistening guilty necklaces. Within aggressive waterfalls of black, untrodden sanctuaries of dark shoddy sandpaper emotions; the more you rub, the more you see, the more you shine.

That's how my dead blue-day eyed doll welcomed me back; my bright was too dark for the nights but his... his was too burning, to bleeding, too bloody for the cherry lips my mind was vomiting at the edge of my shriveled gaps.
Blue, blue, blue always clashes with cherry, busting vein cherry, dying on purple bruised chests. Busting indigo-sharp shouts across the petulant trap of his chest, licking my own troubled heartbeat; still thinking cherry red.

A strange affair it was, with both worlds pulling and tugging my limbs apart; blue, cherry, sky, flesh both so cruel and not willing to let go; not willing to let sugarcoated lies slip through diabetic mind unnoticed; there always had to be a rise or an attack, immersed in sugar-tinted skin and shaken shake shaky fingers, with loose loose lost black running around in fits of shivering insanity.
Quite compelling in a way, toys toying with their masters into loving them, wanting them, keeping them. Mixing up marble sentiments and gem-rare emotions they trick us and toss us around like the children we are.

With Bert... who was the doll? was the question that'd ring through the night's blunt navy-black bark. Cold and warm like hollow plastic was the aftermath of his fingers, his lips and the rope-burn...

All these... these hungers dressed and undressed, this precious imitation of life; powder lips and shy rose-blemished cheeks and waterfalls of hole-black suffocating lonely azure behind desert-sand lids. With every breath it clogs those fluorescent blues with muddy streaks of indifferent gray.
Great fucking imitation of life; exact to the bones; plastic breakable unbreakable metal-fragile bones; to the blasted careless ocean swimming under sour grains of smirking expletives.

But still... there were those goddamn stitches; grazing and shedding bloody lint all over our kisses...
Then he breaks loose again; stale stuffing all over the floor and my shirt, spilling in curses and heart-dark bloody mess; all over me. Words burning holes into tendons and sleeping sinew.

Boys broke their dolls all the time; why couldn't I?

I used to twist, twist, twist and twist at the torso soldered to his cage but he never broke; my fingers were the ones the broken, broke, broke and fell apart over his clenched jagged spine.
Even when holding his acid-slicked strings as they dug vertical pools of symphony-flowing red into my palms, kissed by firewater hues, I never let go. Dolls don't do well on their own.
You don't know who's gonna smash stray blues; so many cruel cruel cherry lips out there; for me to lust, for him to hate, for them to fear.

Seething candy-apple scarlet haunted his cheeks and fists each time a cherry thought dropped off of my tongue, right in the flashlight bright of those glass blues; in the middle of the scary cotton-white; like a fucking bullet hole piercing the aqua-garnished corneas, his pupils glared at me; whenever cherry sweet thoughts rolled off my lips, powdered porcelain ones like his.

He knew; he knew I'd pour, splash away cyanic seas just to grasp and drown in bloody dries chips of dead ripe raspberry lips.

Give away cool cool busted blue for searing shrieking, burning crimson.
Fair trade?

Not to dead dead stay spacey blues.

Dump everything we had just to grasp something that's sliding in and climbing out from between my veins; liquid air and dry-ice hurtful it was; leaving the pan to the fire just for silly juvenile whims lying across these carmine obsessive thoughts.
Like picking glass from between the folds of a heart, it hurt the fingers and cut cut through unsettling broken flesh crying crying and purging black into waterfalls of blue; swimming-pool chloride-infested angry blues.
Welding plastic artificial and bone-marrow spines was all that corrupted this.. this painlust, this... this crave for heartbreak with blue-red arteries and veins. Dolls can't live within my ribcage, right? Glassy fucked up blues don't have to cut and slice away this need, want for sour-cream white to sink in cold pepper bursting red, gazelle-blood red.

White is so empty, empty; empty, pure and dead but red... their red is so... so full, so angry, so... so alive and oh-so fake. Just like those cheap Valentine cards you burn with each heart-ache.
So fake and material.

How kisses and fists wreak chine-thin pale ailed the desolate hollow within my chest as he held and stomped on my heart, slitting the blue veins all the way to my sleeve. It rained like calamaties, stark molten pretty lava kisses burning through powder and bleeding-cherry soused fabrics.
This the breaking point; fall into ladderless oceans or ruthless seductive embers?

Everything still bled vermillion truths and deceptive coaxing no's as breezy shredded lashes of rib-colored lies struck at the skin clinging to the back of my head, marking bright flash blue; hurtful flashing blue.

Each time I'd hold him or he'd hold me hazel or blue would die in our fingers; earth hazel and water blue made cold cement-hard lovable regrets worthy of the sickest sick tales and the sweetest sweet sadness.

Slabs of scarlet daze grilled my eyesight each time I'd kiss him, hold his threads up and sew the loose ends back together and tie them to my lips, breathing him up to his feet.
But some times it was like inhaling wires, stepping on them barefoot and pressing your raw fingers on them so hard it splatters glazes red on the way. Just press, press, press until flesh gives in and breaks while he stands again... like a real little boy.
Alabaster and rose-petal pink cheeks.

Alabaster and candy-floss pink sounds so romantic and everlasting but with acid and water if melts away to milky pink rivulets mingling with the ground and under your toes.

But wait... colors don't make dolls real...
Right?

It's the passion, the rancid rankling blood smothering and crusting his marmoreal arms and back, the moves hurtling out of his breakable bones and brittle blues. The wild wild blues rolling furiously with his wooden carved sockets, veinless and knife-sharp, setting gravel-adorned looks upon naked beaten skin; burning blue, dead flame-red and ivory white-exposure.

Saline bright tears flowing from stained-glass blue torched his shoulder-blades as the crystal ruby fingernail scars screamed under the green-blue veins.

Did it take pain to be a real little boy to me?

Tears and salt and chemicals spilled into tearless and heartless eyes, reaching out for over-stuffed china ribcages adorned with bullet burns and professional cuts and unpicked scabs; immersed in gunpowder last traces of kisses and nightly touches; created these hardened soft cotton bones and the locket of I heart I let him keep and throw around to starve.

He starved the piece of zombie emotions that quaked shut with each cracked stumbling breath, like a favorite broken record which fails to deliver the message.

Like defected cherry bombs, faint explosions crippled the sound of his ragged breaths, crawling and posing above my skin and the piano black and white shades slapped across my fingernails.
Was this love? Or just merely a mindless struggle between legs and lips to kill any emotion that could possibly be cloned between us and onto other hearts?
Or was he just like anything my fingers touch? Copper. A bloody copper glass doll bound to shatter?

Like everything I touch?

There was this devilish smile, those menacing eyes; azure twinkling blue; and those powder dry lips. Smooth and entrapped within that wry sick little smile.
I wrecked his arms and heart with each look outside, to the outer world away from the misty floors and sheets.

I was a boy after all, wasn't I?
A ruthless, cunning, malice-devouring little child that liked to crush the ribs of his favorite toy each time his lips curl in awe at the sight of a prettier one with drop-dead red lips. Playing with switchblades and kissing them on the mouth when they had torn his rainbow high paradise, leaving his eyes shattered and fucked to the ground.

Soaking up my paints of azure liquid hurt, pouring into his pristine fleshless spinal wounds dripping guilt swinging itself like a wild firecracker and spinning like a skeletal carousel digging and tearing into my filthy skin; enraging the zoo of cells and diseases in the veins sleeping within, screaming neon-bright pain like snakes being ripped from their canary-yellow and crow-black scales, spitting poison out of their broken vulnerable fangs.
I had to rescue him from the little sadistic traps I had set for him; verbal bombs and heart hangers; lain and stretched provocatively at every corner of our apartment, under my tongue and within our saliva.

There he is now; a walking fallen scripture of complexity and peeling burnt-out inadequacy slumped upon the scrawny chair that mirrored his arms in their stale fragile sickness; and those twitches...

He was shivering and spewing broken-off back arches; he was trembling from the root of the tiniest hair skulked behind his ear; unseen snakes and worms crawling and twirling within every reddened joint, sending shards of static-spiked pains across his fingers and borrowed flesh, stretched across his manically paining bones.
A living corpse choking as orgasmic lethal bliss vacuumed the air within his tender paper skull, burning up memories and bloody fucks, hidden beneath his stomach and abandoned thigh bones.
Just tired discolored dead-white limbs dangling off his shoulders and ice-cold unconscious torso.

He was shaking, shaking, shaking and flailing like a bionic disaster, wrists and wooden edges locking together like sandpaper versus raving metal, splattering curls of skin and splinters from under and within red prudish contusions refusing to bleed; only darken. Like my little monster doll would. So submissive... yet, so proud.

Fingers are clicking against the ligneous arms of the tormented chair carrying the weightless doll; twisting and brawling bundle of flesh, blood, bone and sinew fighting against itself in a pointless war running within his veins; like crystals beating and gnawing against poor lonely flesh.

Click, click, click, scrape, click, moan, oh, oww, yeaah, click, click, scrape...

He slides to the infuriated floor and lays upon the dirty carpeted providing solace to his dulled paper-thick complexion.
He's on the ground, arms, elbows and wrists clicking against each other like frozen branches chipping off of audaciously bold tree trunks inside bastard hurricanes; mutiny scarred upon each millimeter of bark and green budding stems.
You can almost count the veins; crying as they tangle and gush poison into the sister streams corroding his eyes, leaving blurs and innocuous flashes blinding the core of his pupils.

His dead glassy blues closed and closed as his ribs collapsed trapping his heart -strapped to mine- under the flanges of each rib, syringe-sharp rums bursting shivers and venom beneath his breaths.

The snowball avalanches is the one to blame, shooting to his brain...
Beads of sweat are dying on his chest; the eulogy for all of our kisses and rainy fucks. Crystal blue leaked onto sturdy stubble from his cracked eyes...

Help him? Live?

Dolls aren't alive. No real little boys.
Pretty glass blues are just azure and black cracked crystal. Ribs are just wormy wood, bones are just... ribs and blood is just... cherry.

Cherry dead lips.
No more blue-red clashes.

Just lips..