Melancholia

LX. | Girl of Black Glass & Ichor

And who are we?

I say we are the inklings, the co-authors, the felt-tip pen leaks; words of human emotions drooling down on ragged cloths of paper and glass, smoking away to hollow out all our stringing fibres, to sell our matter to the ones who knew our bodies better than they ever would our complex minds.

Stupid.

And why do we do this?

I ask myself as I pace around one shop for seven hours each day to learn something, flip over and earn something, be something. Do something. And I see that I cannot interact, I cannot smile without my lips twitching, I cannot breathe in the scent of fabrics and nicotine on my toilet break and force myself to think it is fine. It is vile. A serpent within itself, striking, viridescent, cunning, unforgiving. And I am the human.

The human.

She lays at night, almost midnight, and prays her life will never repeat itself. She prays for the end to a loophole, after eternity of ichor running through her veins and planning to erupt like sensual pleasure of the organs. Does she want to be human and breathe? No. Survival is for the weak. She wants to ponder. Skim her frail fingers across frozen wastelands and let her kiss by the only ice there is needed to get a man intoxicated.

Young.

And free, and so happy to be touched. To be felt. Lean and mean and luring. Like a siren, his voice sings out. Melodious, ignitions set off in the ears of those who hear him speak and become blinded by the charm of which oozes out of his words. And the pleasure of skin, the feeling of flesh on flesh on flesh. Watching her undress. To be touched. Oh, to be touched. And felt. And he cries out in jagged lurches, craving, never receiving. For we get simply to give, and it is a cycle we learn to cherish. The bird flies high above the mountaintop until it sees a corpse to peck at, at which is sweeps down and become too involved in the eating, the drinking, the partying.

And the bird.

The bird falls and its wings break. It evolves, and its bones shatter, and the ichor in its arteries turn to gold dust and fade away with the atmosphere of the earthen soil in which will pass on for eternities unless she figures a way out.

The boy. He cries out for his love and she soothes him with kisses of concern and an utterly amused look of glee as he twists in torment. She likes watching him in pain and pleasure and protest. She likes to see him corrupt himself. Sweets and sweat and boys. And the taste of salt and nothingness and humanoid creatures on the tongue, flickering, burning.

Acid, fire, fuel.

Death.

Destruction.

The cycle of life, shattered in a swallow and a forced smile.

We devour ourselves in hopes of lust and love and affection. And so we are cannibals. We eat the hearts of men and enjoy it.

The bird knows. The bird remembers, no longer able to fly. It remembers. It relishes in the reminisce, never regretting the kills at all. Contorted with affiliation and aphrodisia.

And the heroes of our story, the godstars who watch over humankind with icy cold glares. Watching her in particular, as she walks around the store feeling her bones about to shatter, on her feet for hours as she smiles at strangers. Lost in her bedroom. Somewhere not here. She weeps in the change-rooms like an angel, fallen.

Falling.

Forgotten.

She weeps for the sorrows left behind. The sorrows her cracked friendships left behind. And how stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. Crying. Watching herself dying. Touching the shattered mirror and sucking her own blood dry because she likes the fizzle and the sizzle and she knows she will not die, but rather experience.