DreamerI had always been a dreamer.
Where others saw only emptiness, my eyes spotted the delicate details that had only ever been unnoticed and forgotten.
There is an irresistible something about outcasts that pulls us together, something that opens us to one another and allows us to truly see.
I was a dreamer, and so I never simply passed over the insignificant. Because I myself was insignificant, my eyes had been opened to visions that were otherwise hidden from view, concealed behind clever, oh-so-pretty facades whose elegance was much more evident to the untrained eye.
Life was a dream of a grand scale, a dream that was revealed to a chosen few and withheld from the unfortunate rest. Those who were too blind to see the dream chose instead to face reality and to grow up. The childish innocence of the imagination, however, could not be reclaimed once renounced.
There was a magic in the way a rainy day could change the way one saw the world. I could look through a veil of the falling
paper wingsshe is delicate, a fragile
doll made of paper-skin
and feeble, hollow bones.
her heart is wasted away,
empty of emotions and
empty of love.
but she has a heartbeat,
and though it's weak
it still pulses, nearly soundless.
she likes to think that
a cage could not hold her back,
that she has wings to fly.
her body is so frail and light
that it could be possible,
she says to herself.
but when you are surrounded
by the darkness, it is hard
to keep hope.
she is delicate, a fragile
bird with wings of paper feathers
that cannot fly.
deathi knew a man once who feared death.
who feared the unknown, and
the end, as well as
but what he feared most of all were
what if? he asked.
what if i were to die, and my soul
never left the earth?
would i remain here, a mere phantom
forever damned to roam?
there was a boy, too.
a boy who did not fear death, but embraced it.
the unknown was lovely,
the beginning a gift, and the end
was not the end, but an accepted
aspect of life.
the in-betweens were glorious,
moments to discover and imagine.
if, he said to me,
if i were to die, and my soul
never left the earth,
and if i were to remain here,
a mere phantom forever damned to roam
then- then at last would i know freedom
for what else can it be,
when you are as a ghost
and may see the world, yet not be seen?
what else can it be,
when you have forever in your hands
and can dream amongst the stars?
for when the end of all things comes
i shall be heartened to see
that cloaked reaper of souls,
break my bonessticks and stones, love.
these are the words that i left you, when i slipped a worn sheet of folded parchment beneath your pillow this morning. with steady hands, i pressed my pen down and forced the letters out, till i nearly tore through the page. words can do that, you know; tear things apart- rip them- until only the shredded fragments remain of what once was. you know this, don't you, love? you must, because it's what you've done to me.
break my bones, please.
this is the sole thought that reeled through my mind last night, when you dragged your curved, red-tipped fingers up my thighs and gripped my skeleton hips with force enough to leave blossoming swirls of black and blue and violet on my wasted paper-skin. i longed to hear the snap, snap, of shattering bone, and to feel the beautiful, lovely pain that comes with the fragmentation of one's body. because physical pain has always been more endurable than emotional heartache.
words will never