"Do you really need a reply? A reply is but symapthy, advice, or yet another gatecrash into your emotions."
- Toto Vellani. (20 Jul 2003 05:08am)

"Distance only as a ploy, a poetic
Device, a means to make the end
Magnificent."
- kanupriya (10 Jun 2003 02:27am)

What I have left: cold fingers, buried memories, soul-stirring fragments of each of the six elements, the knowledge of who & what changed my life, and thus, what they taught me and what the hell I'm going to do with it.

Very soon I'll pick a day to gallop off in the direction of the wind. I threw my writing into the fire. We know this. Do you still disregard these as empty words?
I'll send you postcards from there.

Determination has earned itself a capital letter. :)

Her lips are cracked and her tongue is dry from licking rolling paper and forming careful words like 'I need to go now,' spoken softly and unsteadly to the man who calls her 'Love,' because he can't remember her name. And lying on her back she looks up through the skylight watching the black branches scrape the glass and imagining herself dangling like a dying leaf, balanced ambivalently on the edge of extinction, fragile and delicate and irreparably torn, stained red and oh-so-eager to fall. She clears her throat and reaches for and apple shake, while an internet ad urges her to shell out petty cash to 'Miracle net' and as night crawls up the window panes, she swallows her regrets and chases them down with a bitter cough of indifference. Biting a chunk of styrofoam out of the cup she's been crushing in her hand, she lays out a game of solitaire on the table and plays until she realizes that it doesn't feel like a n y t h i n g when she wins; and she curls up again on the floor that hurts so good against her feverish swollen skin. The cellphone rings and she freezes, her eyes scanning the room frantically, struggling to hear herself think over the silence between urgent outbursts that echo off the walls and haunt her vague and distracted headache. Sighs dripping between her fingers and melting into the floor, like sirens disappearing in the distance. She stumbles into the bathroom slamming the door, walking unsteadily to the mirror and staring hard at her reflection. A victim of misunderstandings represented in two-dimensions. She sucks her breath in and wipes the expression off her face, focusing for the first time in weeks on her pale hands, tangled hair, harsh scars, empty mouth and cold teeth.
Outside the wind blows and she braces herself for disaster, her tongue dry and lips cracked....

xxx

Frigid fingers probe and rip apart, wearing down to the bone in this vain attempt to free herself of something more than this temporary release of parting skin around her hips, and scarlet lines shimmering down her legs this is her accumalation of lies.

She remembers a time when this was enough to bury emotion but the earth runs thin through her fingers and her ghosts make the most of the opportunity; whisper in her head the prayers to vanquish all cathartic murmurs, haunt her till she can barely stand...

Teeth scraping against her neck, she whispers in his ear 'fuck me and i wont make a sound' and he likes it more because she's so unresponsive (almost.like.rape but with no chance of being charged) She bites her tongue; on her knees the bathroom tiles making x-o grids on her knees, she'll play with lighted matches and shards of glass, documenting this into forgiving skin.. and when you come, she never makes a single sound because there's nothing left to say.

Mechanical motions, tragic beauty. The waves of post-human desire crashing against her soul and she entreats herself to an island where the waves dont reach so high and the moon comes out sometimes beneath this broken sky, going quietly insane.

As long as theres physical contact and some resemblence of emotion, she'll fill in the blanks herself.

Three Weeks...

You tell me that's all it takes, and I can get myself back. My 'self' is what you've named the happy creature you used to know and love. I remind you that it will probably take the rest of my lie.

You ask me if I mean the rest of my 'life'... I stare at your face...

"You said... the rest of your 'lie'... I thought... you meant..."

Oh. Yes. You're... right. Thankyou.