hsh_silverwolferine

there comes a time where words don't act as catharsis anymore. 
          
          pretty, pretty words, flowy lines with abstract, poetic diction. 
          
          fantastical fiction. 
          
          language cannot convey my pain the way blood would—
          
          spewing and gushing amidst globs of yellow fat
          
          the vivid sensation of a trembling hand,
          
          the slant of old metal, 
          
          snaking uneven gashes upon pliable flesh. 
          
          in fruition my inartistic art would be proof: 
          
          of the babbling child locked in within,
          
          chained and hindered and made so faint
          
          externalised only in jaggeredness;
          
          the childish fear of hurting oneself—
          
          of drawing a deep deft clough—
          
          butting uncompromisingly with the grown, adult fear—
          
          of excruciating numbness
          
          loneliness
          
          pain. 

THE SPRAWLING METROPOLIS
          Exhales factoried fumes into sweltering slums
          And heaves viscous slop down the waterways
          There is no sickness here in the cities
          Is what we’d like to think
          We make investments into arbitrary enterprises
          And pay tenfold
          When our ventilation fails and we inhale
          Feverish air from the squalid shanties countryside
          So purge organomercury from stupefied salmon
          Expound the dreams of millionaires
          With each bated breath our selfish ambition
          Soars spaceward above the glistening skyline
          (Life in Mars, by Elon Musk)
          The poor shall whimper and plead
          They kneel upon the streets
          With each rasping breath Mother Gaia takes
          “Might you a dollar to spare, my child?”

The flowers in the vase are wilted and dull. 
          
          She knows this before she so much as enters the room, for they smell nauseatingly sweet- the kind of sweet that is preserved solely for things that rot.
          
          It is the fourth time this week that she's replaced these flowers. She holds them and they fall limp between her grimy fingers, petals drooping and sad, barely hanging by threads. She calls for her caretaker, and his hands envelop hers, gently seizing the dead flowers away. 
          
          He leaves in a spare moment, and when he's back, she smells the fresh scent of roses carress the air. And as she breathes in, imagining the very beauty the roses held, her caretaker holds forth the vase of rose carcasses and sprays yet another dose of cheap perfume into existing fumes. 
          
          The girl smiles charmed into the billowing fumes, blind eyes soft and dreamy, anticipative of what was never there. " Will the flowers last longer this time, sir?" She implores to her caretaker, hope aglow. 
          
          He smiles a smile hard and callous. 
          
          " I'm sure they will, I only bought the very best."

her tail falls onto the ground with a dull thump, a drab piece of meat bleeding black into crimson carpet. it thrashes and slithers like a blind serpent, desperate to reattach to its stump. 
          
          then it dies. it dries up like a sunned prune, devoid of movement, and she drops the blade into soft carpet, panting. her mind is quiet now, and she is pure. the wanton thoughts that God himself had sowed deep within her had seeped out into the carpet alongside her dirty, lustful blood. 
          
          the succubus stands and wipes caked, dry blood from her stump. her eyes are clear and bright as she struts pass slavering men, and draws herself up to soft luscious lips not unlike her own. 
          
          of her own volation. 
          
          of her own romance. 

recently i feel like words have left me.
          they once poured forth like water down a creek, 
          but now they trickle-
          less like steady droplets of water in a damp cavern,
          and more so slops of earthy liquid emptied out of a hollowed well. 
          
          my mind is silent and void of language.
          an oxen beaten mute, tongue lolling and limp. 
          on days i sit and try to piece words together,
          but they fall apart as if they were parts of different puzzles altogether. 
          
          sometimes [] steals my puzzles, 
          interlocking words that shouldn't be. 
          and when he throws the mosaicked pieces back at me,
          they are an assembly of the frankenstein's beast. 
          
          'bloody idiot', 
          
          'fucking moron'. 
          
          'you cheap fucking bitch'. 
          
          'i don't love you, 
          
          its your own fucking stupidity'. 
          
          the words sear but [] doesn't mean it. 
          he's a babbling infant when it comes to words, 
          a child grasping with sickened fascination at puzzle pieces beyond his comprehension. 
          
          i struggle to wipe off the adhesive on his puzzle pieces, 
          hands bleeding from my vicious scrubbing.
          my throat's hoarse and my jaw's clenched.  
          i'm crying tears that fall as silently as water in a stale puddle. 

i hate the way you make me feel, 
          thorns and thistles up my throat, 
          roots clenching around my beating heart, 
          squeezing and squeezing, 
          pulsating and pulsating.
          
          when i think of you flowers bloom. 
          they have the most nauseating smell; 
          so strong they warp every other thought in my head, 
          rendering them useless, 
          rendering them you. 
          
          my belly churns with these flowers,
          full of ugly desire. 
          and when i speak i spill nectar, 
          nectar so sweet and nectar so sinful
          they seem more so a poison than a treat. 
          
          touch like morning dew.
          laughter like a gardeners song. 
          i'm pining, hurt and delirious, 
          the flowers blooming from deep within.
          
          should i splice me right open? 
          gardener's shears, right down my bosom.
          its been years, but these flowers don't wilt. 
          if i snip them by their root, 
          could they grow back any stronger?
          
          for years i've sold flowers along the streets, 
          hoping for a penny for a set of pruners. 
          yet you were my first customer, 
          and when i held that penny in my palm, 
          i left the store with fertiliser instead.
          
          its too late, 
          a terminal disease. 
          do me a favour, 
          don't reject my flowers. 
          smile at me and accept them daintily. 
          you can crush them later, when i'm 6ft under. 
          
          hanahaki otome, 
          hanahaki otome. 
          would you like flowers blue, purple or red? 
          hanahaki otome. 
          
          
          

Retreat from reality, into a timeless universe warped and concealed from our own. 
          
          There are cracks in a mirror invisible to slaves bound by time, in a world where minutes and seconds rule as masters, clip leashes upon necks and drag bodies across the floor, tired worn and used. 
          
          Let loose, let your mind wonder. Conspire with your childhood friend, Imagination. 
          
          Build a kingdom with you as queen. A harem of the finiest beauties, kneeling by your feet. Golden throne lined by silk. A thousand persian cats at your service. 
          
          Even as reality around you falls apart your mind will offer solace. If you linger long enough the two universes will fuse- a beggar as a merchant, a cripple as a dancer. 
          
          Everything is better in a bubble, iridescent and shimmery. 

She's stacked them up like dominos. 
          
          One after another, in a straight line, flawlessly, carefully. 
          
          She thinks they will last. 
          
          A centimeter between each block of the same size. 
          
          Her eyes smart. Her neck hurts. She's content with her progress. 
          
          Maybe if someone took care not to brush against her hard work, they wouldn't fall. 
          
          But no one cares. She's warned them, poured out her heart to them. 
          
          They trample over her dominoes, crushing them beneath their feet. 
          
          Her dominoes don't hurt. They arn't legos. 
          
          Only she feels the pain as they come tumbling down. 

(Continuation)
          Her prey comes by just as the clock passes midnight, just as she had every other day. The doe is but a fawn, dressed in clothes too mature for her, complete with stumbling heels. 
          
          But the fawns age didn't matter; she spared no pity. Just another victim whose hair she would wear like a bracelet, whose teeth she would string and display like a trophy. 
          
          Pretty brown eyes which she would gourge out of sockets, feeling them mush against her grimy, course fingers. Dainty little fingers that she would grasp at like a lover, and strip from skin like a cook. A thief, insufferable fingers clenching and stealing her sex, robbing her from womanhood. 
          
          Seizing her life. 
          
          The doe puts up a fight as shes hauled into the alleyway. Its less of a fight than it is frantic trashing, but she succeeds in loosening her assaulter's grip. Neck and wrists throbbing, she stumbles backward, dazed. The two share a moment with interlocked gazes- one of fortunate prey, and another of a wolf that had lost its kill; yet shimmering with barely unveiled mirth. 
          
          She watches as the bunny turns and makes a dash out into the busier streets, white tail fleeting as she streaked into the dying crowd. 
          
          Thirst pooled within her, a growing pit of warmth at the pit of her belly. 
          
          Interesting. 

She stood still, a shadowy silhouette in the dead of night. 
          
          Silent. Brooding. 
          
          Knife in hand, blade welded sharp, ready to carve into flesh. 
          
          Her fingers danced. The blade followed suit, catching a glimmer of light from the street lamps. 
          
          Eager. Anticipating. 
          
          Her nose twitched, wrinkling as a dogs would. Her lips parted, drool dribbling down unhinged jaws. A wolf, hidden by the shadows of the night, banished from its pack. 
          
          Deranged and hungry.  
          
          Her eyes scrutinise every bypasser. A man, too old, slouched over from the day's fatigue. Smelling of sweat and labour, the sufferance of age. A woman, loose straps around droopy shoulders, papery skin stamped from the touch of too rough, lustful fingers. Marked with the dirtiest of ink. 
          
          Like a wolf she lay in wait, hackles raised and snout skyward. Patient yet impatient all the same.