This is blood on the walls, in the cracks between tiles, under every footstep and this is what clings to the soles of your bare feet when you tread so carefully so as not to disturb the ones still sleeping. This is luxury and taste; a thick, dripping opera, crying out against the still-shaking air. This is what you hear when you get into his head. This is food, lovingly prepared; a rich and heavy succulence, ripe and ready and oh god, that’s delicious, what is it? This is what sits on the rough of your tongue as you swallow. This is what lives in the back of your throat and this is what it tastes like to go mad: like honeyed fire. This is what cakes onto your knees as you crawl over the bodies. This is wine, flowing, a fountain of burgundy and marrow-white. This is what it feels like to not know who you are. This is what hides underneath your fingernails when you wash your hands; this is the colour red, never pink. This is bile and rot and pinched, papery flesh. This is how your seams rip; how the juices burst open the taut skin—you are only ruptured fruit. This is the way your teeth sink into them. This is the dark of your fluttering eyelids and the smell of fevered sweetness: this is what you hate to think about. This is what you can’t look away from. This is why you can’t sleep at night. This is not your design, but it feels like it is, and you are waiting for the day when knowing no longer matters.
Posted on: Sun, 10 Nov 2013 10:26:32 +0000