You were a unique creature with glass eyes and rice-paper skin. You cried tears the flavor of watermelon and apples and words fell from your lips like the dead dried up husks of insects. You wore antique velvet robes that were so moth-eaten they crumbled away each time you swayed your hips.
I did not know what to do with you, you whose fingernails chipped away from brittleness each time you scratched the freckles climbing up your spine like vines on brick, you who bled and bled and bled and never stopped bleeding each time you sliced your finger on your own paper flesh until it was sealed with tape. But still you said not to worry, grinning at me with ivory teeth and too-red lips as make-up cracked and fell from your cheeks in cakey slabs.
I remember the day you put color in your eyes, your glass eyes, and no matter how you tried the color would just be winked away, even as the tattoo needle thrummed against your cornea, and at the end of the day all you had was blind, uncolored balls rolling around in your sockets. I told you not to worry about it, stroked the veined bits of your hand and told you I still loved you even as the bugs ate your fluffy insides and left behind naught but a foul smell and emptiness until there was almost nothing left of you.
You cried when your long, untangled locks of hair fell out of your head and lay on the floor in soggy heaps like cancer. I breathed on them and they turned to ash. You curled up at the bottom of my closet, curled up in your rotting purple robes, shivering as dust covered your skeletal form like dirty snow. And still I came to visit you and whispered that I loved you and during those brief moments your smile came back and broke all of your teeth. You were still pretty, even if all your hair had fallen out and your body clothed in nothing but its own nakedness. Your eyelashes fluttered against my skin like feathers, your fingers as slender as crane's necks and just as delicately poised.
I stared in horror as I broke you in two with my love, your dirty, rotten insides strewn across the floor, your painted face locked in an expression of surprise as maggots slithered out from between your legs. I wept for you, crying out for one last taste of watermelon tears before I sewed you back together with cinnamon dental floss and gently placed your body in the glitter-glue encrusted shoe box—the best coffin I could provide for you with what little the breeze had not snatched up and carried away. Despite my carefulness, I could feel your bones breaking under my fingers like candy cane, your head lolling at an unnatural angle as four cardboard walls enveloped you and took root in the moist earth.
I wrote your name on the handle of a plastic spoon and stabbed it into the ground above your grave, feeling as if I'd stabbed my own heart and as I walked away I sobbed upon realizing I could never find or love anyone the way I had loved you.
I don't know what spurred me to write this, all that I know is that it begged, screamed to be put into words. Strange, considering Naruto plotbunnies are all that have been hopping around my brain as of lat
Still, probably only because it's hot off the keyboard, I find myself totally loving this. A bit dark and even a little more strange and just a bit sexual, this little prose oddly describes the love between a person and an antique doll that used to belong to that person's grandmother and as they watch that doll slowly decay away. Was that doll ever actually alive at some point? ... maybe.
It's not intended to be lovey-romantic. It's meant to be romantic the same way Frankenstien is romantic, the same way Miyazaki's movies are romantic. Meant to invoke emotions and to lightly describe the relationships that form between a human and something else entirely.
Read, review, and all that jazz,