Life Beneath The Words At Play

The potters vase, the artists glaze ⚠️

⚠️Trigger warning ⚠️
*Abuse*

The girl that once was was only just a facade. She was an illusion birthed from a vile mind. Corrupted entertainment for the audience. A little flash of the dark light, which only kindles life if they pay for the show they watch. It only costs one soul for two hours and an eternity of broken minds passed down by the director standing behind the stage, dressing up the doll and propping up the monster.

They're not born. They're made. Sculpted from clay. Every imperfection counts to the vile creature they make. They're let be as they are. The system only helps better sustain their hunger for deceit and malnourished thoughts of murder. They need sustenance.

He has to feed. It's blood he needs. Blood shed of innocence, or even just a single hopeless dreamer who truly belive they can save him. Anything in reach to manipulate. He is in need of a canvas. He is, in the end, a sculptor. He is many things, but no one can say just one thing.

The girl stands frozen still, clueless as to who she is with. A monster wearing skin only to hide the rotten decay within. As the flesh drips away, a devastating scream rumbles in each ear.

She still believes he can change with the power of her love and devotion he can become a man. She is but his canvas to paint. His clay to disfigure and distort with his claws wrapped around her breathless lungs. He squeezes oh so tight as she glances down at his lustfull rage within each eye shining through the darkest night.

It struck her in that moment. She knows now that she is not an artist. She is no miracle. She has no magical love spell to fix his wrongdoings. She can not ungrasp his hands around her neck. She is just a girl. Just another bruised art piece.

He places the glazed vase on the fireplace mantel besides the three other statues he's made. They look so empty and posed, almost as if their waiting for the right time to unfreeze and go home. When the time is right, he'll set them all ablaze. The fire dances around the potterer and engulfs the creations he made.

They can not make a sound or scream because they have no lungs left to breathe. If they singal distress and try to ask for help, they know they'll just send them right back to hell or tell them to have evidence the next time they'll come. The art will never be right. The sculptor will always take the credit.

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Originally, it was supost to be about Repo! The generic opera. It shows at the beginning, but then I started dwelling more into the corrupitoned part of the movie and over all systems in society.