I’m frustrated with myself. I do stupid, dangerous things that I know aren't sane or healthy, but each time I do them, I feel proud of myself-- I’m in control; I did it. And I smile. But then I feel guilty and weird and gross over it. I can’t discuss it with anyone; I don’t want to be that person, the one who needs rescuing.. not just because I don’t want to be a burden, but because I genuinely like the peril I’m in. I’m on fire and I finally feel warm now.

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Disintegrate

I imagined my body decaying and melting into the carpet. My mind recalled the phenomenon after death when the deceased’s blood settles, a patchy mottling of skin, causing a horrifying yet beautiful discoloration.  Death’s kiss-- bruised purples and pinks, a farewell firing sunset fanning out on corpse. I pictured my flesh speckled and unfashionably pale

My own romantic tendencies had me barring the more grotesque aspects of decay. There’d be no bloating, no stench. I’d be a body, sprawled perhaps, but in a slumbered position. For an instant, I imagined the gore, my skin flayed and cackled, peeling and dehydrated, rotten and raw, but the ugliness of it was searing.

I visualized my face. Muscles relax after death, and eyeballs tend to sink back into sockets. Eyelids creep open. Would my eyes would be open, looking without seeing as they so often did in life? I thought of a dead fish floating in the river, washing up on shore. I could see its glassy eyes, receding and decaying slowly. Eyes, which were never a window to anything, but rather a clump of very useful cells, open as though aware.

Would someone lay coins on my eyelids? I imagined stitches sewing my eyes in a grotesque manner perhaps more suited for a horror film.

I told myself to shut up and I smoked a cigarette. I went to bed that night, and visions of fish and decay and death’s kiss haunted me.

snippet

I’d almost reached my destination when  something snapped and I began to fall backwards, not unlike a wounded bird falling from the sky. I was falling faster. I imagined the sounds a ghost would make as it fell and realized that I was nearing the bottom. I startled awake in bed, my breath caught in my throat. 


*small thing I wrote for another story that didn't really fit in with the rest of it. 

smother

I light a candle and watch the flames. I hold my hand above the orange; it’s so beautiful, and I want that. I want to be beautiful and warm. It burns, but it focuses me. I am centered. My hand aches and my eyes tear up, but I hold my hand closer still. Screaming seems melodramatic; most things about myself seem to be these days. I hear the rain outside and my record player inside; it’s beautiful. I am a part of this; I am connected to this fire. It burns me, licks me, dances inside of me, warms my frigid core. My hand is raw, and I feel a sense of accomplishment, of pride. I've been strong. I understand the fire. Beautiful, destructive, and fragile.

My hand is too close to the fire, and I accidentally smother the flame. The dark thoughts cloud my mind.