His iridescent sighs.

Her heart tripping and skipping beats.

She tells herself under hot breath, "I'm not in love."

His smile rips out the demons that haunt her bones.

She wants to melt into his arms, but tells herself, "He's not in love."

His eyes capture her thoughts and send them sky-rocketing.

She dreams about outer space, nebulas and the birth of stars.

He whispers, "Stay a while."

She wants to take his hand. She wants to say, "I'm so in love."

The fever started in her throat, caught her fast so her words proved false; cutting up her esophagus, scraping against the roof of her mouth, bleeding from the inside and poisoning her speech. Her lips turned pale and shook when he kissed her. She was dying in his arms. He would comb her hair away from her face and it would tear off in chunks in his hands. Her eyelashes were falling off and she often fell from dizzy spells. Her skin was chalky white, though her eyes burned like night fires lit by vengeance. He could not touch her without leaving dark, deep scars on her skin; even cloth could not provide a barrier for his fingertips on hers. His breath sent her into violent fits of coughing and she could hardly bear his embrace. Their love would not fail, though he often cried for her at night when the stars shone with vicious remembrance of the past.

She told him with a patient smile that she would not perish for nothing, that their love was worth the worst and most painful deaths and that she would sustain. He would shake his head and look away. Her eyes would flicker in sadness and her broken words would be uttered, “Do you still love me?” His heart would not lie. “Of course, you’re the ground under my feet and the sky above me. The earth is not as beautiful as you; even now you’re lovelier to me than a blanket of stars or an ocean sunrise.” She would smile, though her features dropped in fatigue, and nod, falling back into dreary sleep. Her whispers caressed the bedside, “Then we can’t let her win.”

The air clung and grew with static, building into a hot summer storm. The thunder brought tension that made him fly into rage at every strike and blow. He sat on a broken rooftop and gazed at the threatening sky. It was her laughter. It was her joy. He cursed the sky for being in tune with a monster that had brought such pain to his life. He sat and reflected upon what had brought him here, and why he cursed the devil named Sylph who had made his life as dark as that night.

Many months ago, on a journey to rid the forest of rebellion, a traveler had come across a cluster of clouds that floated down from the heavens and caused him to cease his journey; the fog was much too thick to continue. Upon stopping, he saw a magnificent being materialize before his eyes, as if out of the fog itself. She wore a smug smile and came towards him, her figure growing slowly from translucent to opaque.

“Weary traveler, from whence do you come?” She hovered slightly above him as she spoke, her words light and airy.

“The castle in the valley. I am not much weary for it is only a stone’s throw from here.”

“You must have marvelous strength, perhaps one such as a prince is endowed with.” Her words played in the air. “You are a prince, are you not?”

“I am. My name is Flynn. And what may you be, an apparition?” He gazed at her gauzy skin and pearled hair.

“My name is Sylph. Tell me, prince, have you not seen one more beautiful, more charming and more graceful than I?”

He considered this a moment and nodded, his hair falling across his eyes, “I have.”

Sylph’s reaction was that of disgust. She flew back and the fog around her coloured darkly, “Who?”

Flynn’s eyes softened and he brushed back the hair that had shadowed his eyes, “Her name is Tegan. I love her more than life.”

She frowned, but drew closer, “Is this Tegan a princess?”

“No, but she will be a queen. I wish to marry her.”

Sylph paused and the fog lightened. She moved close to Flynn, her hands dusting the sides of his face. Her lips met his and she pulled him up with her high into the reveling sky. She broke the kiss and grabbed his wrists with both of her hands. They were 40 feet, poised upon the clouds.

Her smile turned into a hideous grin and she coiled her body around his and breathed her words close to his face, “Will you not trade your love for this peasant girl for mine? I control the air, the sky, all of this. Will you not love me?”

His course was set and his love was strong, “I am faithful to her. I won’t… I can’t trade her for you.”

She let go of one of his wrists and he dangled by her grip on one of his arms. He winced in pain. “No man shall refuse me. You don’t know what you’re doing, Prince Flynn. You will suffer as I do. You will suffer because she will suffer.”

He twisted and tried to grab her wrist but his hand went through it, as if the particles had dissipated as he tried to touch her.

“Yes,” she hissed, “your love shall wither and die at your touch. She will die because you love her. And then you will not love her anymore. You will love me, because I am not frail and weak. You will love me because you have to. You will love me because I am the most beautiful, most charming and most graceful being to ever exist. No one refuses me.”

She glanced sideways at her companion and a smile slithered on to her face, “Love her, Prince Flynn. Love her while you can.”

Her release was quick and he tumbled through the air, his limbs pulling and contorting at violent angles as he plummeted. A branch tore across his cheek and another snatched at his clothing. Her laughter wrought the air and his body hit the ground with a sound like thunder.

(...the ending...I couldn't bring myself to find a suitable ending. Perhaps she dies, perhaps their love prevails. Tell me how you think this should end, if it should at all.)

I was walking down the halls on my way to the washroom yesterday in Sociology, and I had this awful gut feeling as I saw the tree in the courtyard and the fuzz that looked like snow defying gravity flying around. It was this sickening feeling that I wasn't happy. Now, I realize that happiness is a manner of travel and not a destination, but then I wonder, what is my destination? Why am I getting good grades? And essentially, who am I? And who am I living for?
Then I think, even if I could be this ideal person, it wouldn't work because I could be the person I picture but it would never fit completely because I'd always imagine myself with a bunch of friends and being able to be comfortable with everyone, which doesn't just happen because you decide to dress differently. And even if I did have this outward version of a perfect self, I would still feel uncomfortable because I don't have that connection with people. I guess it's just a longing to fit in, except...not. I can't even explain myself...I have this version of myself...like I always classify myself as a romantic. My perfect life is just having love and being in love. Now, what does that mean to me as of now? Well, I have no boyfriend, no love of my life, and so I am no one, because I do not meet the criteria that is me. And, say I did, would I then cease to exist because I do have someone to love and there is nothing left for me to hope for?
I guess I'm ranting. I just feel incomplete and I know there's not a thing anyone else can do. I want to crumble and break and fall apart. I want love to pick me up. I guess I'm saying that what I want is for someone to save me, for love to save me, for fairytales and romance...I want life to be like Shakespeare, where there's always passion and words for each emotion and everyone speaks them with all their hearts not afraid of any other goddamn person that's going to criticize them, and Nintendo, where no one runs out of lives.
What's the point of getting good grades, going to school, getting a good job, if I'm not happy? What happens if someone can make me happy, but I can't find that person, or they don't want to be happy with me? What if I'm always going to be afraid of love, and never take risks? How will I know who to love?
It's as if my whole life centers on finding that passion, that romance. I just can't be alone anymore. It's so hard. I can't be independent...I'm just not strong enough.
It's so stupid. Maybe this is desperation, but how will I know that I won't grow up and never find love? My whole life will be unfulfilled.
And I can't get close enough to someone to really let them know who I am. I'm so afraid of connecting with people that I hide myself until they seem like they care and I can talk to them without trembling and wondering what I'm going to say next.
I just don't want to deal anymore. I want to crawl into a corner and write and write and try to rid this love from my mind...so that there's nothing left but a hollow shell and a book of love and passion and what I wish could've been. My essence on the pages, burning with entirety, the smoke filling lungs and pressing close to heartbeats.

I must applaud anyone who read through all this, but, next time, don't bother.

Weird Occurence # 1: Took a book out from the library called "Wild Roses". Read a few chapters in when a small card (like the ones you get when you buy flowers) fluttered out from between the pages. On the front it read "Steph". I freaked slightly and slipped the card back between the pages until I had more privacy to read it. It felt so ominous. I don't know. Things like that are hard to blame on coincidence, since what are the chances that someone named Steph read the book and had a card and left it and I was the next one to get it out? I guess it's possible. I just wish it meant something. Anyway, the card was one of those flower ones that said Get Well Soon at the top. This is what it read: "Stephanie, Hope everything went well today! Hope you're feeling well enough for school on Monday hahaha Dye" Okay, so not so profound, but still..Wouldn't it be amazing if things like that actually happened and had meanings?? *sigh* There were some dandelions in my locker lock one day yesterday before lunch. I'm fairly sure they were for Charlotte but they were still pretty and made me smile. Ah, spring, dangling love before my eyes.

I went biking yesterday and I stopped to rest and wrote this:

The bloody massacre of Monday Morning. The stars in her eyes that glittered softly at first, but what I knew were just ticking time bombs, waiting for vengeance and the bloodlust of creation that echoed atomic dawns. Her heart swelling indiffidently until remorse was her only saviour. The wind calmed her while the heat soaked in, ruining her complexion and thirst for revenge. Every moment peeled and oozed as she tore away the layers, like an orange spoiled by the sun. She wore glasses to dim reality. The colours were too violent, she said, too vivid and too complex. The trees ached and swayed when she danced and her movements created a storm of wind that tore through the placid scenes painted before her. She was a goddess of creation, an entity of destruction.

(Maybe if I write enough bad things, something good will come out.)

His feet were edged upon the precipice. Every skewed moment was a fracture of truth. It was like this every time. The rock had scars, but his were deeper. Moments like this carved out every breadth of his soul, the wind gripped his stomach and pulled him closer to the edge and every breath was to lighten him so that he might lose control of the edge.

***

She exhaled and her breath became tangled and interspersed with the heavy cigarette smog and alcohol airs of the darkly lit bar. Her back was stuck against the wall and her eyes closed periodically as she let the drowning sound of the band in the background flood the cracks in her mind. The blue and black polka dotted dress she wore was accessorized with a red belt, orange rubber rain boots, a long pearl necklace and messy hair that clung to the side of her face. Every so often her tongue would flick out and trace her bottom lip, as if remembering some foreign, but pleasant, taste. This was followed by a sharp inhale and a low solemn sigh. Her eyes flew up to the ceiling whenever they opened and often a hand or two was thrown against the wall as if defiant to gravity. She was characteristically drunk.

***

Sea glass and heavy notions of the past

Your passion cannot be justified in a world of capital lies and organized crime

Maybe tomorrow or next week I will actually have something good to post, instead of just getting all this writing out of my system.

A deity of silk complexion and eyes alluring stardust, she captures souls in a charm around her neck. More often known as a chimera, she morphs through ages, dates and times. Her skills range in talent and harshness, and yet she still lingers at their lifeless eyes, compelled by the extinction of the flame of knowledge; the glimmer that promotes inner thoughts and understandings. She destroys humanity and knocks over buildings with her breath. The more blood that spills across the streets, the more vitality that runs through her veins. Every inch of causation scarring and leaving marks across the earth. The swirl of life contained in the vial around her neck leading to the proof of wrongful deeds. With every step she was followed by her continued guilt. It never was so strong, but the humanity in her was growing and she found herself haunted by guilt. The eyes of victims left behind told stories of conviction. A foul step and the necklace slipped from her neck and sunk to the bottom of the sea, where it broke and souls slipped from the mould and raced up to the surface, pulling and tearing her body down to the ocean. The flesh that she now wore as her own held her from disappearing or vanquishing away. She saw a million eyes that bore unto hers. The sea enveloped her body and the pressure crushed her limbs as they pulled her through the depths of the water. Being a human was never as satiating as when she died and her soul oozed out through her eye sockets until there was nothing left.

"Leave me alone."

The door crashed shut by force of his misery. Nights like these, that spilled blood from the moon, were the worst. He shuddered heavily and fell into brooding, locking himself under the staircase. He would pound at the walls, his rage compounded by thirst and vengeance. His screams clung to the walls and dripped down to soak the carpets. He was in love, but the dark side of him was getting the better and he locked himself in more often now; this hollow heart cringed at the sight of her, a flash of his craving flooding into his mind, a river starting at her neck. He fell apart and on his knees. The monster had taken over and he was compelled to answer the call, his eyes clouding with nostalgic memories of appetite.

The blood that quickens through these veins
Every breath caught in suffocation,
Until the blade gleaming shreds
Skin and the blood spills blue
As the poisoned lips.

"What doesn't kill you makes you weaker,
socks keep my feet warm.
A quarter is 25 cents.
Life is a playlist on random."
(semi-quoted...if I remembered the words right.)
- Boy on stage with pretty voice


(I have not posted in a long time. Kudos to anyone who checks my site and finds nothingness. For you, the nothingness is only my lack of time and my heart stretching to fill the space, but not quite being able to write it all down eloquently. I wish you warmest socks and best songs.)