I want your soul to sing six words harmony...
Previous - this entry written on June 05, 2006 at 7:04 pm - Next

I want your head
I want your wicked parts
I want to wring out your evil thoughts
I want to eat out your bitter heart
I want your soul to sing six words harmony
Of all the pigs that might tempt me
I know you're sick alone and I�m telling everyone everything

So scratch it on the wall of your coffin on your sick day home:
"And when your lover loves to cheat there's another you can meet
It�s a short pier, it's a long walk home"
You gotta show me where it hurts
There�s a beast and a burden
Kicking, spitting on your bathroom floor
This is your life this is your life and
When I�m done it's over just a little bit more

Good things die all the time
So God bless your heart, vengeance is mine.
"Kiss me like you mean goodbye," said the spider to the fly
All those times you thought that you were wrong, you were right

So if I fight the good fight will hairlines recede?
Will lines deepen in face to craft a look of defeat?
I feel the end is near my little Monday night whore
My little Saturday night became a Sunday remorse

And it's all over America
God bless the game show heathens
This is your life, this is your life
And at last my good friend we are even
I know
I�ll never lose an arm, never stay up staring at the phone
If I ever rot up with disease don't you bury me and leave
Don�t you leave me in the ground alone
You gotta show me where it hurts, never cremate me to burn
Never chop me up and throw me to sea
You�ll never have to find the words they come out spilling unrehearsed
But you and I will never find that peace

Good things die all the time
God bless your heart, vengeance is mine
"Kiss me like you mean goodbye," said the spider to the fly
When all those times you thought that you were wrong, you were right

Caleb will be home soon.

I... ehh. I want, more than anything else right now, to use someone. Not... not kindly, not caring what happens afterward, just using them as if they were a cheap toy purchased from a thrift store, already half-broken, no need to bother taking care of it or protecting it, it's just a little scrap of temporary amusement bought for a few cents. I want to look down and see someone who can't even bear to meet my gaze, I want to see fear and shame and the beginnings of an empty stare on their face, I want to watch them turn away, staring at the wall, trembling just a bit, miserable. I want to walk over someone's dreams, pull them down out of the clouds, bind them to the earth with ropes and knives and harsh, hurtful words that trap them and hurt them so deeply...

...I want to sit behind someone, winamp playing, the music filling the room. I want to lean over and press my lips to their skin, half-kissing, half-whispering, quietly singing along with the lyrics and just... holding them... waiting until the gentleness and the moment of kindness and the fear of what will happen next and the sweet, solemn song lyrics all combine and they cry...

...I want tears, I want to bathe my fingers in them, lick them off flushed cheeks and unprotesting lips, I want to see a river of tears hiding me from their sight. I want to watch them cry and know that I have no reason, no need, no desire to comfort them.

I want to see misery so intense that I can barely breathe from the force of it. I want to see someone hurting, truly HURTING, at my whim. I want to rip the ground from beneath their feet, leave them tumbling, falling, taken so far down that they have no pride left, no strength, no hope for anything but death. I want to listen as they beg to die.

I dream... my mind is filled with the image of a place I used to frequent often, in the dreamworld. The walls are crumbling in spots, a few stones fallen here, a brick or two missing there, the roof needs patching and the grass is slowly invaded by encroaching weeds. The people there move slowly, as if caught in the web of the dream that forms their world, lacking the vibrant life that frequent dreamings gave them. So much of the place is still clear in my head that now, thinking of it, dreaming it, it feels like coming home.

The library doors are still unrepaired, one hanging at an odd angle, the other removed entirely. The books, those that were still in good condition, have been replaced on the shelves, the curtain has been repaired. My bedroom still sits where I remembered, the huge, sunken bath has been kept clean and sparkling, though I've had no use for it in years. The stairs... the long, narrow set of stone steps leading down into the belly of the keep are covered with dust, only one pair of footprints breaking the veil of dirt and grime, the single guard responsible for feeding and watering those who are kept below.

The stables. The main kitchen, the second kitchen. The servants' quarters. The banquet hall, the room that had, perhaps, been intended as a ballroom but has served other purposes instead. The long halls, with their tall, narrow windows and the thick carpets running their length. The flights of rickety stairs leading up to the highest rooms. I remember it all, I've walked those halls more often than I've paced the streets of my hometown in the real world, in many ways it IS Home, for me. I miss it.

I miss more than just that House, though. It is so empty now, so quiet, because the ones who made it come alive no longer dream of it. It has been more a tomb, a whispersoft fragment of what once was, than a refuge, of late. I miss the company I kept there, miss the ones who shared my dreams, miss hearing voices of those I cared about echoing from the stone walls and miss the scent of them saturating sheets, filling rooms, leaving me never quite alone when I walked through.

...this is Jezebel in hell..
...I wanna kill you
I wanna blow you

Dark dreams. I woke earlier to a half-awake vision of creatures living in shadow, odd little things that were messengers, and the message they bore was fatal.

These are
The last words
I'm ever gonna get to say to you
When everything falls away from you
Take these words
And know that, well, it's not worth leaving...

It was an oddly comforting dream. I've had very strange dreams over the last few nights. I don't think I've been wandering anyone else's head, but... meh. It wouldn't surprise me if someone else had found a way into mine. These aren't my dreams. Most of the dreams I normally have are recurring ones that I've had since childhood, or ones that follow a fairly specific pattern of weirdness. These... don't. *shrug* Oh, well. Movies are more fun if you haven't seen them before, usually.

But yes. I've been dreaming. A lot. And I've been trying NOT to go dancing off when I do. My own head's been confusing enough lately. I know what I want, what I crave. There's no confusion there, I KNOW what my body and spirit are both craving, and know that my few attempts to get even a fraction of it seem to be ill-timed and frustrating rather than comforting. Ehh, I won't worry yet. This isn't the first time I've been frustrated, not by a LONG shot, and I can wait a bit longer.

Part of me, not a very large part, mind you, but definitely enough to be noticed, is starting to complain about the tightness and smallness of my current circle of friends. I'm on at odd hours and not for very long, there's a lot of people I just don't get to talk to any more, and with the distance... yeah. Out of touch. I feel like I'm in purdah, which I'm sure I've spelled wrong and equally sure most people will have no idea what I'm talking about but hey, the word SOUNDS right and I at least know what I'm talking about, so. *shrug*

I see hell in your eyes
Taken in by surprise
Touching you makes me feel alive
Touching you makes me die inside
I've slept so long without you

Hey, come on, it wouldn't be a mopey, emo-ish, goth-ish, tacky, over-dramatic entry if I didn't post lyrics from at least three different songs, right? *wry grin* Yeah, I know how a lot of my rants come across - more whining and rambling than focused anger. As they work quite well for the whole 'getting this shit the hell OUT of my head' bit, I don't intend to change 'em much, sorry.

Fish, like I said a bit earlier in the entry, Caleb should be home soon. As he'll be bringing home Vicodin, this will make me VERY happy. The withdrawals from two days on morphine and several more days on vicodin aren't really fun and I would prefer to have enough to taper off rather than stopping abruptly. I HATE the headaches. Yeah, sorta my own fault for taking the stuff at all, I suppose technically I could have refused the morphine and vicodin, but... meh. Anyone who wants to TELL me I should have refused it doesn't get to talk until they've had the same screwed-up procedure twice in less than a week involving genetalia and sharp objects, kk? No telling me I should have suffered through it if you don't know how much it hurts.

Meh. "Talk Show Host" is playing now, Radiohead, and it's making me remember one of the toys I... played with... for quite some time. Artist. Pretty. Delicious. Remembering the bard, too. Remembering how Kadin's writing can sing. It is getting more and more tempting to see if I can hunt down a new toy, someone with artistic talent, music or writing or images, I want to be able to look at something beautiful and know it was done for me.

Then again, right now I could get that effect just as intensely watching someone bleeding for me... it would be beautiful indeed, sharp and pure, trickles of crimson against pale skin, eyes open wide, staring at nothing, body trembling, trying to remain still, anticipating the next kiss of the blade... so lovely. I want the taste of someone else's blood on my lips. I want the feel of their breath shuddering out, then drawn back in with a helpless gasp.

I want to watch them slowly slip under, darkness overtaking them, the pain or the bloodloss enough to steal away consciousness.

I want to watch someone die.


Eventually it'll happen again. I just suck at that whole 'patient' thing.

*wanders off, flickering, for a moment nothing more than shadow... then nothing at all as she leaves this universe behind to walk through her dreams*

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