strumming her beautiful bones

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this is a different style than i'm used to, but when i'm struck with an idea, i have to try it out. so here it is (: rated horror and m for a reason.

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I smile, and I mean it.

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There is a rippling in my consciousness, like the tiniest little tear in my defenses. I feel the seed, plummeting into my insides; the pit of the forbidden fruit. Eating strawberries is tradition. They trace the tip of my tongue, delicious juices drip-drip-dropping. "I feel the pit in my stomach," I joke to my sister later. She's gotten a little incessent: "Why are you holding your stomach like that, Lydi?" It's fucking america, I think. But so mean. "I feel the pit rom the fruit rolling around inside of me," I joke, because that's nice-good, acceptable enough.

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First kisses are all rainbows and butterflies, the tabloids say. You'll just know what to do. Bullshit. "Ouch," I apologize as our noses collide and I let out a little puff of air that might sound like agitation. My mouth sounds muffled. The syllables aren't mashing right. It's like bone against bone. "It's okay," he whispers. I can see his braces. They're pink. What boy- ouch. I think our teeth just knocked. It's the roots inside of me, I consider joking. They keep sprouting and climbing up my insides and getting in the way.

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The roots have crept up into my mouth. They're trying to unhinge my jaw, only I can't scream stop or otherwise people will check and see nothing but air. My lips ache when I try and smile.

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The musician understands the roots inside of me, crushing my innards. He says just slice a little bit here and maybe there and i'll climb in and look around and it's okay because i can see the weeds. too. You don't ask who the musician is. I have named him such, ever since he clambered through the gash in my arm, sliding right through the trickling blood, and took residence in my head. he plays beautiful melodies on my bones with his shadowy hands. Sometimes he takes over and I can't control the movement of my fingertips but it is okay because he sees the roots too. I'm not crazy, see? tell them 'fuck you,' the musician says. I do.

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Fingers that are not my own, yet mine, but shadow and incorporeal, trace the sides of my hips. The skin isn't perfectly tight. Don't you want to do better, a voice in my head that isn't mine but is -kind of i don't- says. You could achieve perfection. Perfection I've never known. My eyes aren't dry. They burn. But I'm smiling, and it's glorious.

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There's one time that I get a notion that doesn't seem to originate from the roots twined so deep inside of me and it's become so foreign that I sink to the floor, because it's me, or is it me, but it's the closest thing to the old me I've heard in a long time and realizing that I've changed so much- there are words stilled to lullabies by the musician as he strokes my bones and plays me a song that calms my frantic nerves. shhhh. you are doing fine. I hear that.

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Sister offers me a strawberry and I take it because it's glistening so beautifully in the daylight, dangerous, captivating daylight. As I'm raising it to my lips, my breath cuts out and oh god my stomach hurts and i can't and-"your lips are a little blue," says sister. I try to speak, but the musician is clamping my mouth shut. trapped. "too many blueberries," the roots joke. i'm watching, detatched, unable to touch myself.

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days pass and i don't know it. the musician tells me that i don't need to be scared

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digging my nails into the sides of my head tightly enough to draw blood, trying to drive my head clear away because i'm a demon, i'm trapped. lights are dancing and i'm so fucking hungry and fucking screwed up and fuck. fuck. the musician grabs my hands, tries to drag them away from my head, but I scream and yank back, my face convoluted and realize that my scream is utterly silent, vibrating gently along my battered bones, my bloody insides, controlled by the musician. i am a puppet. i am- his.

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ripping-

"oh god"

"oh"

it feels like my bones are shattering. somehow I end up with a kitchen knife in my hands and down, down. my arm is bloody. metallic.

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i'm walking down the street wearing a short sleeved blue shirt with flowers and there's a mark on my arm.

no one asks, but i'd tell them "i helped cut his way in and then i cut him back out."

there are rings under my eyes, dark, but i'm smiling, and it's real.

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