Ten Little Chances to be Free (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tenlittlebullets) wrote2003-08-26 07:31 pm
tenlittlebullets) wrote2003-08-26 07:31 pm
(no subject)
Haha, I swear patchouli incense gets you high... five minutes after I started burning it, I started hearing things that weren't there, then I went downstairs and wrote a bizarre spur-of-the-moment, unedited bit of romantic!goth femslashy weirdness inspired by Millais' painting of Ophelia.
Dreams of the Dead
You're just sitting there, on the bench all covered in ivy, sitting there leaning against the rough stone of the wall behind you. Stand up. Stand up, because it looks as if the ivy will cover you too; twine its way around your limbs like it did the slats of the bench, as if to hold you there while it does its work, make you a living extension of the bench, the wall, the living mass of dark shiny leaves; until it creeps lovingly into your mouth, inside you, to strangle your cold heart until it dies as all things must and crumbles to ashy dry leaves in the snow. Stand up, love, please, so I don't have to watch you meet that fate.
Your face is pale, milky white against the black silk of your dress and the brown silk of the strands of your long hair that have been blown carelessly over it. Only the snow is whiter; your hand has fallen into a pile of it where it droops by your side. Clutched between your slender fingers are two locks of hair bound together with a ribbon-one the same brown of the one that has fallen in your eyes, and the other my bright, coppery red. Bound together forever in the twilight noon of an approaching summer storm; people fade, you'd said, and bodies rot away, but hair will last forever. Just like us.
Fluttering heart; snowflakes catching in my hair; the dark smudge of eyelashes against your marble cheek. Any moment now you'll open your eyes and shout that you fooled me and dance around the garden in the snow, laughing and dragging me along in one of your winter dances. Yes, dance with me, my love; we'll dance until the world ends.
I run my fingers along your wrist first, expecting you to jump and start, to stand up and dance with me of your own accord. But you won't, no, not you. I seize your hand, wrap my arm around your waist, lift you to your feet and let you rest your head on my shoulder. Dance, dance with me, my Ophelia, my Pandora, my sweetly lying Delilah-let the snow soaking our skirts and freezing our legs be our punishment, yours for swearing you would return to me, mine for believing you. Dance in the snow until the sun comes crashing from the sky.
Kiss me, my love. Lift your head up and kiss me, or I'll kiss you first. Drag you down into a swooning embrace that leaves us both lying in the snow, clutching each other-me because I will never let you go, you only because the dead weight of your arm has fallen across my shoulders. Your lips are stained bright red; there is a spray of cherries lying on the snow beside us. I kiss you, I taste the almond flavour that laces your lips and I hold you that much tighter. If you couldn't have come back, could you at least have taken me with you? Or let me burrow under the earth like a sleeping bear, lulled by the blanket of dirt and snow and soothed by the singing of the worms into dreaming the dreams of the dead? Let me share something with you, my love, even if it is only a dream.
Or let me follow you on my own. Let me fight through all the fires of Hell, only to have you by my side as we burn. I kiss you again, sucking the almond-scented poison from your lips, finishing with what's left of the cherries, pits and all, almonds and cherries the last taste on my tongue. I yank my copper braid undone, pull your soft hair out of the bun it was pulled loosely into, and arrange them to intermingle on the snow. And then I kiss you for the last time, waiting for the end. Let the snow cover us both; let the ivy rot us from inside; let them find us here and wonder at our final embrace; so long as we are together, dreaming the dreams of the dead.
---
By the way, I don't know if there's enough cyanide in cherry pits to actually kill you, but it makes a decent story idea all the same...
Um, yeah. In other news, my history teacher is cool but my bio teacher is like the long-lost twin brother of the boss from Office Space. *shudder* And my math teacher is a total Nazi--we already have homework... *sigh* And I barely saw any of my friends.
Dreams of the Dead
You're just sitting there, on the bench all covered in ivy, sitting there leaning against the rough stone of the wall behind you. Stand up. Stand up, because it looks as if the ivy will cover you too; twine its way around your limbs like it did the slats of the bench, as if to hold you there while it does its work, make you a living extension of the bench, the wall, the living mass of dark shiny leaves; until it creeps lovingly into your mouth, inside you, to strangle your cold heart until it dies as all things must and crumbles to ashy dry leaves in the snow. Stand up, love, please, so I don't have to watch you meet that fate.
Your face is pale, milky white against the black silk of your dress and the brown silk of the strands of your long hair that have been blown carelessly over it. Only the snow is whiter; your hand has fallen into a pile of it where it droops by your side. Clutched between your slender fingers are two locks of hair bound together with a ribbon-one the same brown of the one that has fallen in your eyes, and the other my bright, coppery red. Bound together forever in the twilight noon of an approaching summer storm; people fade, you'd said, and bodies rot away, but hair will last forever. Just like us.
Fluttering heart; snowflakes catching in my hair; the dark smudge of eyelashes against your marble cheek. Any moment now you'll open your eyes and shout that you fooled me and dance around the garden in the snow, laughing and dragging me along in one of your winter dances. Yes, dance with me, my love; we'll dance until the world ends.
I run my fingers along your wrist first, expecting you to jump and start, to stand up and dance with me of your own accord. But you won't, no, not you. I seize your hand, wrap my arm around your waist, lift you to your feet and let you rest your head on my shoulder. Dance, dance with me, my Ophelia, my Pandora, my sweetly lying Delilah-let the snow soaking our skirts and freezing our legs be our punishment, yours for swearing you would return to me, mine for believing you. Dance in the snow until the sun comes crashing from the sky.
Kiss me, my love. Lift your head up and kiss me, or I'll kiss you first. Drag you down into a swooning embrace that leaves us both lying in the snow, clutching each other-me because I will never let you go, you only because the dead weight of your arm has fallen across my shoulders. Your lips are stained bright red; there is a spray of cherries lying on the snow beside us. I kiss you, I taste the almond flavour that laces your lips and I hold you that much tighter. If you couldn't have come back, could you at least have taken me with you? Or let me burrow under the earth like a sleeping bear, lulled by the blanket of dirt and snow and soothed by the singing of the worms into dreaming the dreams of the dead? Let me share something with you, my love, even if it is only a dream.
Or let me follow you on my own. Let me fight through all the fires of Hell, only to have you by my side as we burn. I kiss you again, sucking the almond-scented poison from your lips, finishing with what's left of the cherries, pits and all, almonds and cherries the last taste on my tongue. I yank my copper braid undone, pull your soft hair out of the bun it was pulled loosely into, and arrange them to intermingle on the snow. And then I kiss you for the last time, waiting for the end. Let the snow cover us both; let the ivy rot us from inside; let them find us here and wonder at our final embrace; so long as we are together, dreaming the dreams of the dead.
---
By the way, I don't know if there's enough cyanide in cherry pits to actually kill you, but it makes a decent story idea all the same...
Um, yeah. In other news, my history teacher is cool but my bio teacher is like the long-lost twin brother of the boss from Office Space. *shudder* And my math teacher is a total Nazi--we already have homework... *sigh* And I barely saw any of my friends.