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100words is back! For the longest time, it wouldn't let me write anything for September. My life was truly empty and bleak. But it's back! Give me a second while I scream in joy and dance around my living room...
Annnnd I'm back. That was refreshing.
The air has lost its heat and wrath. Now it breezes around us as gentle and giddy as a kitten. I understand this place better now that the suffocation has lifted. There is magic here, more subtle and quiet than I am used to, but no less powerful. Perhaps I don't hate it here.
Fool. Like a child dangling a piece of meat above the mouth of a starving dog, you have offered me something you will sorely regret.
Lust? You think you understand such things? You are an infant, begging for a chance to play. Lust makes you vulnerable. It makes you weak and empty-headed. Don't you know you should never let your guard down around a creature like me?
Ah, but the treat you offer is tasty indeed. Give it to me, little fool. Succumb to me. Open your heart, and let me eat away at the edges of your soul.
Once I was afraid that someone I knew would start to write here and find me. 100words had become not only my diary, but also the place to lock my more violent words away from the unsuspecting world. But then they did start to write, and they did find me, and somehow, it was better that way. I loved to read their entries, to guess at their obscure hints, to applaud their masterpieces.
They're gone now, everyone I knew. Gone to far off places where they are too busy to write. Perhaps someone new will write with me.
He was proud of himself, proud of his ability to work his way into a girl's head and make her think exactly how he wanted. I thought about destroying that pride. I could have done it.
We talked about sexual fantasies once. Besides the addition of razors and blood (seriously?), his wasn't very interesting. He told me he loved me, that he always had and always would. That from the moment he met me, he could never get me off his mind.
And that's the problem. They all fall in love with a creature they don't understand.
"Why?" someone asked once.
Just once. The question was never asked before and never asked again.
"You call yourself a creature. You think you're some kind of monster, but I've never seen it. Why?"
Because deep underneath where no one can see is a demon sick and hungry. Sure, that's what they all say. But for me this isn't a metaphor.
You can't help but love me. It's what I was built for. And while you love me, I let my demon feed and feed and feed. A soul-sucker.
I'll give you paradise but send you to hell.
It smells like fall. No, it smells like it's about to smell like fall. The vital scent of hay and crispy, dusty leaves is missing from the air, so it isn't fall.
Still, there is a surge of energy buzzing from the inside the earth, as if her very bones are vibrating. The slow, sleep drug of summer is over, and it is time to prepare for the winter's knives.
Buzz, buzz, buzz. Can you feel it under your feet? Earth is sending life into her fragile saplings and infant beasts.
"Humans, the foolish things, need it most," she says.
Naked, she was. Paler than the moon that hid just behind the treeline. Her hair seemed to float, to twist and dance without wind. She left no footprints in the grass where she walked, but the land seemed somehow less green, less alive after she passed.
Witch of a Thousand Voices, they called her. The Lady of the Masks.
There were stories about her. Theories on why she wandered, why she appeared only while the moon was hidden.
"Is she dead?" I asked. "Is she a ghost?"
"Dead? No, no." they'd mutter. "You need to have a soul to die."
Today we discussed privacy.
Tricky. Very tricky topic. I have my own emotional baggage with this issue. In my last relationship, I wasn't allowed to have privacy. My diary, email, facebook, and phone were, in his mind, public property. So while I might have agreed with the belief that couples should share everything once upon a time, now it makes me skittish.
How much should a person demand from their partner, and how much should their partner allow them to take? What's healthy, and what's controlling? I haven't quite figured that out yet.
An adult relationship? I can handle it.
The oak tree was screaming, the redwood was singing, the willow was weeping, and god was... sleeping. On the seventh day, he rested and never went back to work. Or so goes my college friend's theory.
Another friend tells me that god didn't create anything at all. He was created by the collective need of humankind for something, anything, to believe in, and when we no longer need him, he will no longer exist.
What do I believe? Why must anything have created anyone? What if we're all in this confusing mess together, lost and lonely as anyone else?
There are sharp edges to you some days. Knife edges. Blade edges. Shattered, broken, rusted edges. You cut those around you and slip on their blood. It stains your feet; not red, but black as a weeping wound. Infecting. Festering.
You are blunt sometimes, pushing others back with the force of your metal walls. Cold walls. Walls that bite their fingers with frost when they try to touch you. Walls that rise up and up and up into the very heavens, surrounded by the broken-necked bodies of birds and angels.
You can be soft too. You can be warm.
Touch. Touch. Touch. There is tapping at the back of your head, ghost fingers that burn and heal, burn and heal.
Can you remember the first time she touched you? Can you remember those warm fingers brushing against yours and sending fire into your veins? Fire that buried itself somewhere near your heart and stayed for years and years and years? Never flickering. Not even once. Not even when you tried to drown it with booze, with drugs, with your lungs filled with water.
Ghost fingers tracing hate, pain, and love in the wrinkles of your memories.
I change my picture fairly frequently. Every month or so. I had sworn to myself that I would pick a picture and stick with it. There's no reason to muck around with things. Besides, finding writers by their pictures is the fastest way on here, and if anyone should look specifically for me, I would want it to be easy for them.
But I change my pictures anyway. Change them to fit the way my mind felt that month, I suppose. And I realized, though it may be folly, that I like the idea that you will hunt for me.
I had a dream I was drowning. My limbs were too frozen and heavy to move. I had already inhaled water. I was going to die.
I watched this happen with disgust. Any moment now, I knew, I would give up and let myself float away into oblivion.
"You are not a fighter," I told myself. "You always give up, so go ahead and do it."
To my surprise, I answered back, "To hell with that! I want to live!" And with determination I didn't know I possessed, I kicked myself to the surface. I survived.
I am a fighter.
I feel as if I'm waiting just below the surface of the water. My thoughts are muffled, dazed, floating haphazardly inside my skull. I can't collect myself yet, can't force myself to move.
But I feel it. I feel the change. Something glorious is about to happen. Something triumphant.
My soul is beginning to burn, to warm the icy waters around me. My mind is beginning to wake up, to remember how to move, how to breathe. Soon, I will taste air again. Soon, I will be myself again.
Soon, I will hold fire in the palm of my hand.
I was given a six month vacation from memories. I didn't have to think about the things that happened in that place. I didn't have to worry that it was my fault. I didn't have to feel the ache of betrayal, of guilt, of simple hurt.
Vacation is over, the memories are back, and I'm trembling under the weight of knowing. Knowing that nothing about that was ok. Nothing about that was good. Nothing about that was...
But, god, I loved him. I did. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid I made him that way. I'm afraid I'll do it again.
There are roses spun from sugar here. They melt on your tongue and, sometimes, in your hand. There are rivers of nectar. The sunshine is made of honey, and drips and pours and runs down your skin so slooooowly. Sticky.
Sticky, sticky, sticky.
The rain is made of... rain. Water. Clear and pure and clean. It washes down and rinses all that stickiness away. It washes it into the oceans where the mermaids play in their white salt towers and crave the days when their seas turn sweet as a tide.
Your mind is such a beautiful place, love.
You are a venus fly trap, open-mouthed and gaping in surprise at the fangs jutting from the ends of your words. You gulp down everything you can fit your mind around. Ideas fall into your head--buzzing and swarming and hungry for hands to write them down and make them real--and are always so disappointed when you swallow and forget. Swallow them whole no matter the taste.
You dream of being a rose with sharp wits and pretty perfumed arguments. You dream of being a daisy, free-spirited and brighter than sunshine.
You are a venus fly trap.
The girl was small, wide-eyed and bloody-handed. Yes, she had killed her share of men--she had eaten their hearts without remorse--but she was new to the killing. Young. Fragile. The people called her Lynx, the pet with claws.
She had found a target and followed like the tiniest of shadows. The stoop of his shoulders was familiar. The crunch of his feet on the leaves sounded, if not the same as
, then similar enough.
There. He turned. She caught the color of his eyes and sighed. It wasn't
Wasn't the creature who'd made her.
The man with the eyes of a cat. The man who had first taken her to his bed, who had taught her with sharp metal and bruising blows. The man who taught her that hate and bitterness were the only ways to survive, to kill was the ultimate power over mankind, that bloodshed was necessary and good.
It was both need and fear that forced her to seek him out now. Paranoia. To hunt is to keep from being hunted.
She had killed him, of course, but that never stopped him.
Watch over you shoulder, little girl. I will follow.
The woman behind me is humming to herself. Mumbling, really, but she has her lips shut tight against the flow of the words so that she sounds like a child talking with her mouth full. She fidgets and flings out her arms in exasperation. Sometimes she laughs.
The colors pour out of her in muddy, confused tangles. They sink into my skin without effort, prickling my mind, tickling the creature that craves insanity and chaos. I have no walls against someone who doesn't know there should be walls.
I want to soothe, but her beast is stronger than mine. Feral.
I haven't been doing a very good job keeping up with this month, but judging by past experience, September is my catch-all month anyway.
"Sorry, September. I really do like your dress. One day I'll learn not to vomit all over it. I swear."
My fingers have turned skeletal in the light of the computer. Silver and knobbly with pale pointed nails. The fingers of a hag, perhaps turned young by sucking the youth out of captive virgins or perhaps wasted by the use of an ancient and vicious magic. Hands show the age of the soul.
She looks magnificent with a cigarette hanging loose from her fingers and her patchwork skirt spread around her flea-bitten ankles. She has the eyes of an imp and the mind of a fairy tale come to life.
The pink has faded out of her hair, leaving streaks of it to be little more than tinted grey, and, somehow, it's perfect that way. There's only a few flecks of paint left on her nails, as if she painted them months ago and then forgot they existed. (That's probably exactly what happened, now that I think about it.)
She is beautiful.
We had lost ourselves and found each other. We were caricatures of who we used to be. Bumbling around with our heads full of images that blurred and blazed and blinked, we adopted masks we called "normal" and submitted them to the world to be analyzed.
Each of us had faced our own versions of insanity, and fuck it if we weren't trying everything to get it back. We saw the others falling deeper into something truly terrible, something that couldn't be survived, but it was like watching a mirror--why stop them when it was exactly what we wanted?
Her mother was a witch with a thousand past lives, some of whom had practiced the black magics and some who had healed the earth just by being alive. Her father carried the bloodline of the dragonmen, and when he passed it and its secret sorcery to her, the cosmos roared in triumph.
She was a child of fire and earth, the offspring of water and air. She was everything, had everything, a soul could desire. Power. Potential. Intelligence. Love. And the ability to choose her own fate.
Yes, even the stars stopped their shining to watch this girl grow.
Hotel room. Wall. Closed curtains.
Borrowed jacket. Bare legs.
Smile. Smirk. Touch. Tease. Kiss.
Teeth. Earlobes. Hot heavy breath.
Neck. Neck. Neck. Collarbone.
Skin. Smooth. Goose bumps. Shiver.
Jacket? Floor. Pillows? Floor. Sheets? Tangle. Woman? Top.
Sweat. Heat. Scent. Whimper.
Nails. Back. Blood. Moans.
Bed frame. Clutch. Tremble.
Oh god. Oh yes. More. More.
Shoulder. Teeth. Bruise.
Oh. Oh. Ohhhhh.
This has been sex in seventy five choppy and emotionless words. Is it still passion after it's been thrown so casually on the page?
I knew a woman with bright pink hair and a dull, dim soul. It hadn't always been that way. Her hair she dyed, of course, and her soul had been tarnished and torn by the vicious nature of an unloving world. Perhaps that's why she didn't mind giving it away when the man who called himself Master stepped into her mind and offered love in exchange. She gave it to him piece by piece and seemed relieved of the burden of it.
I couldn't understand her choice. No man will ever claim my soul, I am sure.
It is mine.
You remind me of someone. He hated people too. He thought they were false, fake, unimportant. Tools to be used and discarded, and just for fun, played with and tormented. He thought he was the only real light in a world full of shadows.
He liked to collect information about people that could be used to hurt them later. It was his favorite game. He couldn't stand their asinine conversations and beliefs. He considered himself a god among men.
He was full of spite and fear and insecurities. He was nothing more than a little boy playing at courage.
Weary fairies, lost in the maze of the suburbs, would often find rest and safety in her closet. She left the window open so they could come and go as they wished. (This was a common grievance for her father.) Sometimes they left her trinkets to remember them by.
Trolls prowled just outside her door, keeping the nightmares at bay and warning the demons to keep their distance. Trolls are dreadfully useful bodyguards. The sounds of their heavy shuffling footsteps were the last things she heard as she drifted off to sleep.
"Such a strange child," they said. "So odd."
I always loved the slightly woodsy taste of icicles broken off the tips of branches. I loved to munch on snow while marching around in my father's boots, pretending to be a princess stranded in a waste land.
As I got older, I loved to sneak out into the bitter night dressed in short skirts that twirled and leggings with stripes and no jacket. I loved to dance on the ice until my sweat thawed the snow in my hair.
I loved to watch the sun kiss each flake of snow as it fell.
"I love you," she whispered.
I want to spend my days memorizing the scars on your hand, watching the hair retreat on your head and the wisdom filling your eyes. I want our bodies to know each other's shape long after we've grown old. I want to see if little hairs grow out of your ears like the old men's do in cartoons. I want to witness the growth of every wrinkle on your face so I can read them in my sleep and remember how you got them. I want to be with you forever, to the end of my days.
I love you.
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