Sleeping BeautyThe breeze drifts in across the drained swimming pool and ripples along the cracks of its tiled walls.Sleeping Beauty by ~char-kisses-lotte
the after effect is noticed enough for shivers to form but doesn't linger into my toes
i sit there waiting for something to happen
for the tension to ebb away or perhaps for it to forget me
it doesn't of course,
and i hear the tick tock of the revolving hands that push me through the next set of open door ways
and close with a bullet prove pane behind me.
silently gliding shut as i watch it all with hot fingers pressed flat against its view. i wonder if it will ever feel the way it has,
the way it does now...
I'm scared it can't.
Thats the thing about breezes; easy to drift onto but not so easy to catch or stop.
i keep waiting now, keep counting and wringing my hands
and forgetting to do the normal things like tidy up or sit with people because detachment does that to you
stretching the stitches your mother gave you that hold you to her;
that thread they call a bond and the needle you
The Forget-Me-Not Opportunity.I want that sky with its clouds scraped backThe Forget-Me-Not Opportunity. by ~char-kisses-lotte
And cherry trees that keep blossom a while longer.
I want notes that break free of bars when played, and voices that break you out of reality.
I want days of sunshine for longer than two weeks, and not just in a strange place.
I want daisies in my hair, and for love letters to be written by hand, not in ink described by pixels.
I want essays about colour to be in colour.
I want late night drunken phone calls, and sweet nothings to be caught in pages not whispers, so that I can keep them forever…
And for “forever” to not sound churlish or girlish or remotely beyond possible.
I want nothing to seem unreachable; not you, or my dreams, or (god-forbid) the combination of the two.
I want to walk streets where people greet each other like they used to.
I want memories to make me laugh even when I know that is all they can ever be.
I want to get drunk without the morning reflection that greets me with two aspirins and a nau
If I Were Human.If I were human I'd be made in heavenIf I Were Human. by ~char-kisses-lotte
If I were an animal I’d be made in Africa
If I were a bird I’d be made in the sky
If I were tomorrow I’d be made in today
If I were yesterday I’d be made in memories
If I were love I’d be made in his eyes
If I were summer I’d be made in flame
If I were a dancer I’d be made in music
And if I were to die; I’d be made in life.
Seduction's violenceThere is a violence to seduction.Seduction's violence by ~char-kisses-lotte
The temptation of lips the colour of blood, and pupils that draw him in like black-holes.
There’s something irresistible about the dig of nails in your back, when you are pressed chest to chest,
A suffocation when intertwined in a rhythm you built with him.
Passion is the strongest though; it is love at its most physical.
Passion is the grip with which he pulls your body back into his. It erodes all fear of exploration or exposure.
It leaves nothing but the explosive desire to know all his crevices, and for him to know all of yours.
Love does not care for herself; she is unflinching nerves, uncoiling spines, and locked eyes.
Love is seduction’s permission.
She may begin as lust, but allow a mouth the colour of a rose – the same rose whose thorn will prick flesh to bleed the same shade – to place a kiss upon his skin and deepened breath, know it shall not stop.
not until the break of a newly risen sun shri
Addressed to Jane Doesome nights I like to tear my veins out, individuallyAddressed to Jane Doe by *intricately-ordinary
like flower tendrils waiting to bloom and
string them up in the sun I never got to see;
violet memories, severe and sharp around the edges
like the day her eyes clouded over. blooming
purple, precious thing, nurtured by her inability to say no;
I wonder what she’d say when she saw the spaceships
steal the sky. she’d raise her bloodless palms
to the empty heavens and ask them to take her, too
(these nightmares are a self-diagnosed
expiration date, I wake to the sound
of your wildflower heart mourning my
goodbye. I still wince like there’s
a war being fought between my bones;
the history books won’t remember the way
death knelt and cleaned my canvas
skin, kissing my forehead before
abandoning me to lose in peace) dear
nameless, the numbers stamped on your wrist are not
an identity. on nights such as these, I swallow your voice
like a shot of whiskey and string myself out like you,
the porcelain savior, hollow,