she calls me

what she sees – what I am – what I’m not –

[Written on 10/10/2017]

“Kaede—”

He is greeted with a laugh much like a papillon lily, all brittle and fond and riding on a seafoam spool.

And he feels a finger rest on a collarbone-train – his (and that metrical pulse of his turns to wildfire again, ferriferous cord in a muffling, democratic dark—)

it’s mortifying, mortifying (for he whose eyes are spurned theatres, houses for a mortem daze in-the-futile-making—)  

It is mortifying and yet

“K-Kaede, I—”

“Shuichi.” She breathes back at last, shedding an aphrodisiac ghost onto the dainty knob of his Adam’s apple and it—unfurls like a lacewinged drug, bleeds selenic spiders by the sweet, sweet dozen along his moon-kissed, dour circuits-of-being (—they’re all but memorial grounds now, archaic home to crescent kisses and waning whispers and all lacrimal shards of testament to her, and her and her—)

Shuichi.”

“A-Ah—”

The irregulars between them warp like innocuous mana, threatening a rupture in him of the gentlest ilk—already he is dangling like a calcifier’s puppet over her ethereal maw, promethean doll-legs crudely poised and aching for a white-rabbit spillage—

“—I   l   v  e y   

She murmurs, almost croaks—and in the morgue-full of his murky fathomings crawls a limping, threadbare sob and

—why of all people….would you

care to call me—

Anchor, croons the lonely, travelling finger, down a wan stretch of thigh to stir more frissons light as the fae. Truth.

Lies, the wormhole-vault in his ribcage mourns back, though he falls (typical) regardless – tangled softly by the heels into her angel’s mantra. Impostor.

he’s never deserved he’ll never deserve

— l  v   ”

The static bleats past his ears in a fraught finale and she- -he realizes that she

th—at angel’s mantra is g—

and the hangman tiptoes out a starry farewell, its organs retc
hing out a storm o
f plasmic kingdoms—
… qu     i  et   Q  u i-  –

Magenta snakes over the skin- -thorny splatter by splatter and

it is me. my supine codes
have failed you. i
; an algorithmic  b a star d   chi ld—

—gnaws away at the lunulae entombed in his irises, a harlequin foreboding armed with a
knife down the gullet

And in the hollows of his lungs, the programmed reapers yield their squalls, sickle-limbs flailing in the muffling, democratic dark as she topples—contents cascading down his calves and his industrial blue throat, and into those damaged keyholes-in-his-eyes that beat once, like mundane quartzes—(in the presence of her, but)

—now the puppet plummets endlessly
into a cradle spiked with tendoned vanes, bathed in

streaks of horror and horror and

gauze, and the parasitic memory of no more no m

.

she calls me—

.

—ton m—I t—ahw

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s