Post by Vixo on Sept 21, 2009 0:28:38 GMT -5
Alright, make fun of me if you want. I'm just. . .disappointed. I wrote this and posted it in an RP room and no one god damn acknowledged it. I know it's shitty in some ways but I like when I spontaneously write something I wouldn't normally write. The end of it reflects the fact that it's RP and not story-writing of course. I may or may not delete this when I wake up with a sense of clarity, haha.
Everything holds a tenuous, trembling shape. Waiting for me. Developing a consciousness, and loving me. Everything knows what my fingers have become, what every inch of my person has become. I am full of something that human language fails to articulate. My body shakes in step with the air, the ground, the trees, the girl whose soft hair warms my palm and whose terror keeps her frozen. Her body cannot decide what it is, made of candy seconds after being an overfilled balloon, realizing it was bone and sinew, then forgetting again. I bring my mouth against hers, silencing her cries, to remember what skin tastes like, to remember its texture across my tongue, and the coppery promises which live just beneath its surface. With these things recalled, I return fully to that which I am, a creature as solid as I am dynamic, as my ever fiber buzzes with that fullness, that inexpressable energy.
Sucking on the young girl's mouth, I feel her bite at the intrusion of my tongue, but I pull it out from between her teeth as though there were never any force behind her clamping jaw anyhow, and they slide away as though entirely blunt. She is sobbing now, giving voice to the tears which had squeezed from her eyes, which invited me to think of her body as something with a flavor to begin with. My thumb presses along the gentle, childish shape of her jaw, then pulls back to describe a line of glorious red, at which my fresh heart feels to leap with anticipation. Some noise rolls out of my throat--a moan, a growl, I don't care anymore--and I press my body closer, one hand so tight in the back of her dress that I think, for a moment, that it's actually her skin serving replacement to her hair, hot and panicked in my palm. My mouth moves to this vibrant new focus, and nothing issued from a woman before has tasted this way. Ah, if my body hadn't elevated beyond such silly things as arousal. . .!
I become conscious of my tongue as a muscle, and force it along that line of red, heedless of her whining cries of pain, pulling the most pathetic amounts of this ambrosia into my mouth. Fuck. No satisfaction. Before I even realize what's happening, my hand has twisted around, so immensely larger than anything that could abide by this girl's proportions, pushing her chin up, then breaching the barrier between skin and circulatory system as though by accident, penetrating the flesh as easily as one might pierce the skin forming on an unattended dessert. I drink further of her, but there is never enough, there can never be enough. With her last shreds of vocal chords she is screaming from the bottom of the ocean, but my hands are weapons, they know nothing but how to rend and dig and give me more. I forget life as a biped and descend upon her diminishing form as a higher animal, sinking low, wishing my physical form had arose to match my essential one, that I could draw this essence in through every square inch of my being. Recalling idiot ways, my lungs suck at air, pull in blood.
There is never enough blood.
The artist arises from his fog, lifting his hand to his eye, a queer tactile event; it is damp and tender. Well-dressed, he sits on a wooden bench somewhere along sixteenth boulevard, where his shop is located, his posture that of a marionette whose strings have been cut. His long fingers crook slightly, his knuckles pulling along his cheekbones, spread on either side of his nose, and his eyes flutter open to pull in the world around him as it actually is. A shudder runs through his body as the place he had just been occupying throws itself against the door of reality--that door shakes, but does not open again to admit this sickening fantasy. Memory?
"I'll never be home," he mourns, squeezing shut his eyes, his voice a self-indulgent, wounded issue such as he'd never entertain in the company of others. Again he hangs his head, hiding his miserable face behind a curtain of dark hair, and lets his hands drop to sway before his knees.
Everything holds a tenuous, trembling shape. Waiting for me. Developing a consciousness, and loving me. Everything knows what my fingers have become, what every inch of my person has become. I am full of something that human language fails to articulate. My body shakes in step with the air, the ground, the trees, the girl whose soft hair warms my palm and whose terror keeps her frozen. Her body cannot decide what it is, made of candy seconds after being an overfilled balloon, realizing it was bone and sinew, then forgetting again. I bring my mouth against hers, silencing her cries, to remember what skin tastes like, to remember its texture across my tongue, and the coppery promises which live just beneath its surface. With these things recalled, I return fully to that which I am, a creature as solid as I am dynamic, as my ever fiber buzzes with that fullness, that inexpressable energy.
Sucking on the young girl's mouth, I feel her bite at the intrusion of my tongue, but I pull it out from between her teeth as though there were never any force behind her clamping jaw anyhow, and they slide away as though entirely blunt. She is sobbing now, giving voice to the tears which had squeezed from her eyes, which invited me to think of her body as something with a flavor to begin with. My thumb presses along the gentle, childish shape of her jaw, then pulls back to describe a line of glorious red, at which my fresh heart feels to leap with anticipation. Some noise rolls out of my throat--a moan, a growl, I don't care anymore--and I press my body closer, one hand so tight in the back of her dress that I think, for a moment, that it's actually her skin serving replacement to her hair, hot and panicked in my palm. My mouth moves to this vibrant new focus, and nothing issued from a woman before has tasted this way. Ah, if my body hadn't elevated beyond such silly things as arousal. . .!
I become conscious of my tongue as a muscle, and force it along that line of red, heedless of her whining cries of pain, pulling the most pathetic amounts of this ambrosia into my mouth. Fuck. No satisfaction. Before I even realize what's happening, my hand has twisted around, so immensely larger than anything that could abide by this girl's proportions, pushing her chin up, then breaching the barrier between skin and circulatory system as though by accident, penetrating the flesh as easily as one might pierce the skin forming on an unattended dessert. I drink further of her, but there is never enough, there can never be enough. With her last shreds of vocal chords she is screaming from the bottom of the ocean, but my hands are weapons, they know nothing but how to rend and dig and give me more. I forget life as a biped and descend upon her diminishing form as a higher animal, sinking low, wishing my physical form had arose to match my essential one, that I could draw this essence in through every square inch of my being. Recalling idiot ways, my lungs suck at air, pull in blood.
There is never enough blood.
The artist arises from his fog, lifting his hand to his eye, a queer tactile event; it is damp and tender. Well-dressed, he sits on a wooden bench somewhere along sixteenth boulevard, where his shop is located, his posture that of a marionette whose strings have been cut. His long fingers crook slightly, his knuckles pulling along his cheekbones, spread on either side of his nose, and his eyes flutter open to pull in the world around him as it actually is. A shudder runs through his body as the place he had just been occupying throws itself against the door of reality--that door shakes, but does not open again to admit this sickening fantasy. Memory?
"I'll never be home," he mourns, squeezing shut his eyes, his voice a self-indulgent, wounded issue such as he'd never entertain in the company of others. Again he hangs his head, hiding his miserable face behind a curtain of dark hair, and lets his hands drop to sway before his knees.