6I'm the kind of girl who sits on the kitchen counter table-top munching on cornflakes and cocoa pops and freeze-dried strawberries when I can't get to sleep. It reminds me of magic: rag-raped nymphets with slim fingers, anorexic jaunty smooth arms, sunken cheekbones, pierced earlobes with single studs, raspy voices, delicate high-arching feet and hooked, curved secret smiles. The kind that know everything you don't, but only share when they love you.
"So when you're hunched over (above the floor, almost levitating, scintillating) with the lights dimmed, your back aches; and you know that somewhere in the dark, just maybe, your shoulderblades are softening to your spine meandering. Something is growing, but it just isn't you - still hanging from innocent child locked hands, dangling off the lost heat from your tight hugs, snacking on left-over breakfast and milk. It's part of you, the detectable delectable imaginary slices and handfuls we all wish we could seal tight like an elixir and clutch to sleep and run away with.
You can sit there, so alluring, for hours (precisely minutes to a straight clear mind), just crunching. Taking a considerable amount of gasps to grasp moisture from the air and simultaneously stifle yawns, a natural sylph. And just before you click the power switches off and finish cereal killing - throwing papery un-sealed bags into the bin along with the remnants of Kellogg's, tossing the champagne flutes that were laced with red wine lightly enough into the sink - you swivel your head around just to check if someone's there. All you see are the ends of your fine black hair, and you feel relieved, perhaps, but you choke back on thoughts of semi-demi-boy-Gods and their big hands.
You could feel blood swirling down from your head, channeling sleep to something foreign and sucking out dream prospects. And when you lie on your bed, new-born baby wings disintegrate, gracefully, soundlessly like they were conjured, painfully quick like they are expected to. They belong to you, they could only complement your skin. And if I had the honor, the pleasure, the priviledge of placing my fingers on them, perhaps they would relent to fit the shape of my cupped receiving palms. Like the pair of your hipbones fused to convex contours on the side of you, the innermost portion of a helix, the empty sand-smooth shell of you.
An hour and nine minutes before morning, you turn to your side and the soft once baby infantile wings slide and settle beneath your sheets in the shape of you. So when you awaken, an hour and four minutes after, eyes brighter than the first light of the sun, you never knew you had the chance to fly. (But you would have kissed me so hard if I had the chance to tell you.)
When you leave the room to coax the cereal to cunning suicide, I wish I could sneak in. That's when I would sweep the feathers into your pillow and let the quills prick me where they would; for you wouldn't bleed in the crevasses of your back that arcs by the bone-"
You are the serial killer, spectral beauty, fairy goddess they won't condone. I know when you sit sniffing wine late nights you think that you're alone. You make me ache so ardently, with nothing more to hone. I'm enamored, I love you much, I want you to the bone.
(A/N: I just wrote this today (15/01/05) on the spur of the moment and I'm quite quietly pleased with myself. Shocked too. I haven't written a short prose piece in AGES. I guess this is quite the tasting platter of what you can expect from my poetry and I hope you enjoyed this, despite the fact that I sound like a total nymphomaniac. Completely and entirely inspired by my love for eating cereal and dipping it in wine when I can't sleep, beauty, growing up, innocence, magic lust and love. Notice I have a concurrent fascination with bones, skin, small, thin, girls and cUrves. This was on my profile for a short while.)