fill with fire; exhale desire [stella/margaret]
Jul 17, 2015 0:19:36 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jul 17, 2015 0:19:36 GMT -5
Heart of stone turned that of gold,
Time wastes yet away.
She spent her last
In fear of a past
That silenced a world to grey.
Tearing the ribs from my chest I watched a beating heart filter the last moments of a marred existence until tinged vision and straining breaths had overtaken the last unwritten will and testament of that which I could not wrap a bloody hand around. Handprint on white snow melting into the ground of purity that surrounded my body—I did not want to surrender simplicity in the presence of a girl who lived for my fall. But I had never gotten to the fine, broken lines of my last will and testament—I had nothing to leave behind me, no trail of treasures to follow my coffin— I’d carve my name with broken bones and edge my boundaries with bruised ribs.
There would be no visitors to this vacant body, anyway.
Left in a hollow home there was nothing to be found in that which never existed, rose of black at my sister’s heels she would mourn for a sister she found sincerity for in the tales spun at my expense, her sins disguised as my own she would not be out of a sister, she would be out of shelter. For my father threw my bones on the flame as kindling to a fire he never realized he would lose control over. One spark sent him scrambling to stomp out a blaze and he was left with scorched skin in the place of sanity.
Strike the match against my skin, watch ignition strike innovation in the confines of a wooden coffin and do not extinguish the flames—they burn with purpose, not pride.
Set alight by simplicity my lungs worked better when the smoke had cleared from under the weight of a heart of stone cracked by the blade of Katelyn Persimmon’s axe.
I did not feel a heart of flesh give way when my heartbeat dulled to those colors of grey.
Instead a world turned black and white sang along to the tune of one’s gain—never the loss, for in the background symphony of another’s victory the funeral hymn was only decimated. I was left to sing the harmony and the melody but the blade of another had torn vocal cords and rendered them useless as the knots tied strained to the sound of a coffin being nailed shut.
Cacophony in each note I quieted the chorus half way through in favor of a different tune, that of burnt flesh and searing skin— stone did not strike ash at all. Instead I found the smoke a signal of the sin I left behind, mixing with my bones like a trail to the heart of stone that gave way somewhere between death at seventeen and birth in the same.
If I said I did not rise to fall, the embers on my tongue would set alight after being struck by insincerity. I did not fall from the summit of a mountain stuck in the peaks of clouds to pull the flower petals from my sister’s hair and watch her place them upon our floor, no, I tumbled for the breaking bones and shattering spine that came with the last words whispered from my lips— the promise to another lost in bloody handprints and silenced hymnals.
I had told Katelyn Persimmon to enjoy her time spent among the dead.
Yet death brought no visitors and neither did I, a vacant body and a viable mind left to fill the cracks with lost fingertips and listless hopes like the rest was left to fate and fortune. No winner in a tasteless game I watched her leave with my last breaths, heart cracking under the weight of too heavy a stone and forever I was sinking, listing for flesh I could not patch across my own skin I was left tracing the map across my own skin with bloody fingertips and wondering why it was stained, praying that my own mistakes could be accounted for but not called customary—patchwork empathy could only be stitched together for so long.
Sewn together like lost memories I faded in time with that which I could not believe, cannon’s call only a suggestion and not mandatory like death in itself. I had never wanted to leave, but truly, staying did not appeal to a sixth sense either, instead leaving me caught in the limbo of life’s counterpart and sin nature like they did not apply to a girl who had a heart of stone.
Heart of flesh stitched together by fine-point needles and blunt words I watched the stitching rip when tinged vision and aching bones were torn from porcelain skin like they had never belonged in the first place—home was not a heart, anymore. But home had never been more than what I had cared to think of it, something between heaven and hell there was truly no resting place for the fallen.
I had wanted the throne of a kingdom six feet under and instead I was left to build it from my own bones, smooth edges giving way to joint pain and pleasure. I’d carve my name with pointed sorrows and smooth the edges with bruised ribs, never a mistake to be seen where the fallen could be found my cracked heart of stone would sit on the pedestal, never to be touched by a shaking hand; never to be touched by my own. For with mortality came calamity, and with fear came failure, all four of which I found while staring at the woodgrain carved in wandering eyes.
I thought to wait for the voices I could put a name to, but flesh and failure and the funeral hymn demanded otherwise and I was left with bloody fingertips and a voice I could not remember, a voice that sung sorrow but screamed of no sympathy, a voice too familiar to call my own and to distant to believe.
Wandering a road less traveled indeed,
She turned her eyes to the sky and fell for greed.
For her humanity is nothing more,
Than broken dreams and hope in store,
And if you follow until the end of this rhyme
You’ll find her loss at the close of time.
table by anzie
