Sweet Sixteen, she came with her crystal syringes and glistening needles. A wasted woman, swathed in tattered black robes, neither young nor old, beautiful nor ugly. Just a pale marble face cloaked in midnight, like the unblinking countenance of a Greco-Roman statue.
sleeping beauty. what beautiful morphine eyes. she pricked me.
Locked in the tallest tower, I was delirious - drifting in and out of sleep, hallucinating of dragons and rose hedges. Spider webs woven across my eyes. A knight on a white horse, a chivalrous Prince Charming raising a gleaming blood-dripping sword into the air with the Dragon's carcass at his feet.
I wasn't hallucinating about the slaying of the dragon. I was hallucinating about the knight on a white horse who would come to rescue me from this castle of nightmares.
The Prince stood beside the bed, peering through the veiled screen. He pulled the veil aside and lowered his face to mine. He kissed me. And then crawled into the bed.
I lay there emotionless, wide mirror opium eyes, as he fumbled with the strings of the corset like a cat batting a ball of yarn. Because there is nothing you can do when you are trapped in the tallest tower and your savior is the one tracing the map of veins across your skin.
Sleeping Beauty. what beautiful morphine eyes.
I'd always wanted to be the heroin[e] of my story. Thanks for caring, dearest.
No comments:
Post a Comment