Stage 1 - I HATE YOU, MONSTER
Raping tears that grace this translucent vassel. Your eyes, god. All yours. Conjuring at it, so steamingly sensual and comedically dark in its candlelit haze but all I know for sure is that you have my head in a lock so entrapped, so ensnared, so closed off from the outer everything all I breathe is what is desired and all I say is to commend you and your angelic figure. “OH HOW FIT YOU ARE, YES THE GREATEST OF THEM ALL.” I exalt as my bludgeoned head begins to yell in hysterical confusion, “I HATE YOU, MONSTER. I HATE YOU.” But nevertheless, it couldn’t matter less, because wounds cannot speak, no matter how much you slice.
Stage 2 - Slumped down without escort
Akin to how many alike would see him sitting alone in voiceless corrosion, you could still nevertheless taste the sense that he’s in immense unrecognized pain. That pain he too would be enduring thanks to your hyperventilation of words like incantations of inconsideration are yet an affirmation to his lapse in self-confirmation. Aka the wrists that are so bladed with sharps and the blood that sizzles like bacon. Grasping the headless torso on a yellowed pantie hoe is a freaky brain strain, to state the most undersized of complaints.
Stage 3 - Brawny Jupiter
Braze, you scrape for the sake of my soul. A pitiful brant you could say; like it’s some sort of holler of victory against me. Like I’m gonna fall back and twiddle as you harvest my corpse for your failing art projects. IT’S INSANITY!! What are you doing? What are YOU doing to ME?! I brace my body for an impact silent and graceful, and just as expected it falls light and peaceful.
Stage 4 - Scorpion Tail
Scorpion tail,
Oh, you poor little scorpion tail.
You squeeze at the toothache and are quenched by the pain.
The darkness inside you,
The gloaming darkness that butchers me to say but I worship it.
Hesitant it may be but the hunting jumbles of equality are miserably powerless, negligibly boundless, grossly uncountable like the blades of grass beneath your talons.
The dashing harshness of the blade comes closer like a threat but indeed do I welcome it,
Such steadfast and bountiful sunlight is its presence to me!
Please come closer, poise in motion I prithee for your compliance,
This is me on my all fours,
PLEASE SNUFF OUT MY LAMENTABLE MISERY
Stage 5 - Stage 5
Oh. Didn’t you say that once or twice before?, those lines; they sing to me that's why I remember those brightful words of flagrance. Get out of here with your veins, get out of here with your pride, quiet down your battered wives, confess to your reprieve and take lust at the thought of relief, jest at the center and spoil the egg that feeds that brazing snout, carry the hound that waddles away from the families burning wreckage, watch as your willow; dear little willow, is summented into the forsaken ground yellowed; misting never vigorous no longer, infest your granite regretfully pleading, opening my eyes to your voicing, your needing, making love to the ground that I call my god but in reality, I’m just fucking a cheap little slut, collapse into sunder rip wholes in the surface rejecting your sins is singing your progress, yawning from exhaustion; breathes, heavy combustion, the brattiness of those eulogies is a camaraderie of tarnished irony.
Halves in dimension. You are standing in space, you wave yourself a greeting and can hear his relief. Utmost posture, graceful and quiet as the water is peaceful, he stares up at me and I stare back at him. And this time, with him in my eyes, I feel my grafted exterior finally reprieve.
Stage 6 - Colored life, newlywed thrive
He, and him only, was standing at the border of a gorgeous revelation. A course of mentality that tickled sentients so eternally ensnared but now, praying at the vista of possessing the liberty he truly felt endowed to. Yet again his sights laid deep, finally opening to the great torments of reality and its harming hand. The absurdity of outer culture may seem so normalized yet it was never questioned. Visually still with the sights of another bringing forecast. But in parallel; cold with a visually fearful fit, he had no such control over it and its unmuted cruelty despite the fact he was also faced steadfastly by the conundrum of all actions being the creation of his own self doing. The becoming of untold humanized features that feel so alien yet so him.
Stage 7 - Vermillion
Travel back in time for just a moment. Meet that cup of love, passion, meaningless featureless happiness that collapsed into this very cup. Under it, you could see that family crest, family. Established, young, steady, and poised with gentle perfection. Yet, it still shows small human imperfections in its hand-made manufacturing. The caressing and care can be felt in its smooth edges and especially at the top of the cup, which has been made to have an edge to lay your lips on. The cup is filled with the fragrance of something bitter-sweet in scent, it looks like Tea. The beautiful blackened look of the tea is comforting to look at; tasting it fills me like a brilliant firework show, so dazzling and pungent it burns the back of my neck as I drink it, but also makes up for it in the rush of activity. The cup is covered in beautiful colors and shows the display of young cardinals perching on a branch together. The colorless parts give you the sense that this is winter, and these birds are hanging close to keep nice and warm. His cup, however, is decrepit. Grasping to every piece, hands shaking as the loose pieces accidentally slice parts of his hand open. The blackened tisane is burning the skin from his shaking hands with tears filling his eyes, continuing to hold to boiling pieces of the shattered cup. “Am I nothing?” Quietly he whimpers to himself beneath sharp breaths. Things were beginning to get hazy, his vision getting fuzzy and daunting to see the cup barely instilled in his hand.
Hush.
Serenade.
You live not frivolously.
Just then his cup is enveloped into a colored and gorgeous butterfly, fluttering light and free. And for him, he found that he was predestined to never fear graves ever again.
Stage 8 - Death
And gently, I lay at the stip of this bedspread, cold and yet tortured by the warmth of the grasping daybreak. I melt with the peace of the cold, and the..