BasiliskVeranda
80s Trash
⛧I
God, it must be lovely being a pretty, wine-mouthed little thing, if only for the hell of it.
I remember when even that was tied to a primary job function; armor in metal bangles, in velvets, in reds, in indigo, only to be made into nothing, and then to unmake someone else.
The paint was my favorite part, but it was always removed in the gnashing of teeth. A smear like the blood on my hands after the job was done.
The lipstick was always red because it’s a trick for men.
I’d rather have worn black, but dark colors send the wrong signals. Pretty wine-mouthed little things always paint their roses red, and so too, did I.
These traits are certainly boorish stereotypes, and yet, they are stereotypes certain men seek. Certain men who were certain marks, that certainly sought me, that I certainly killed.
It’s easier to pull off than you may think, biology notwithstanding.
Especially if you’re curiously beautiful, shorter than some, and know how to move like a prey animal.
But I was not, and will never be a prey animal.
I am a predator in specific geometry, just like before, just like the rose painted lips, and the smear, and the blood on my hands.
The space between the trick and the repeat job function, too, will be the same.
An evaporation in black waters because time never moves forward. The play is never truly different. We all come together at different acts, but it’s always the same because I wrote the script that way.
I wrote it that way because I lived it. And because I lived it, this is my fault.
I’m still the villain with my mouth full of blood, smiling crimson at the mess I established by merit of existing and solved, in black this time. It will be black.
Before that, it will be faux indigo.
We always start with an absence of light, and therefore, color. Then, there’s yellow, and at some point, the gold rushes in—not so subtly—until we stretch from hue to hue, get stuck repeatedly on pink, and maybe…
Maybe this time, true indigo will stick instead of black. I haven’t decided.
I haven’t decided the order in which we all die. Or if we die at all.
It may not even be up to me.
Even if the play is the same, the actors might forget their lines and torch the script with actual fire.
Truth be told, I’m counting on them to do just that.
Because all their fucking lives depend on it.
God, it must be lovely being a pretty, wine-mouthed little thing, if only for the hell of it.
I remember when even that was tied to a primary job function; armor in metal bangles, in velvets, in reds, in indigo, only to be made into nothing, and then to unmake someone else.
The paint was my favorite part, but it was always removed in the gnashing of teeth. A smear like the blood on my hands after the job was done.
The lipstick was always red because it’s a trick for men.
I’d rather have worn black, but dark colors send the wrong signals. Pretty wine-mouthed little things always paint their roses red, and so too, did I.
These traits are certainly boorish stereotypes, and yet, they are stereotypes certain men seek. Certain men who were certain marks, that certainly sought me, that I certainly killed.
It’s easier to pull off than you may think, biology notwithstanding.
Especially if you’re curiously beautiful, shorter than some, and know how to move like a prey animal.
But I was not, and will never be a prey animal.
I am a predator in specific geometry, just like before, just like the rose painted lips, and the smear, and the blood on my hands.
The space between the trick and the repeat job function, too, will be the same.
An evaporation in black waters because time never moves forward. The play is never truly different. We all come together at different acts, but it’s always the same because I wrote the script that way.
I wrote it that way because I lived it. And because I lived it, this is my fault.
I’m still the villain with my mouth full of blood, smiling crimson at the mess I established by merit of existing and solved, in black this time. It will be black.
Before that, it will be faux indigo.
We always start with an absence of light, and therefore, color. Then, there’s yellow, and at some point, the gold rushes in—not so subtly—until we stretch from hue to hue, get stuck repeatedly on pink, and maybe…
Maybe this time, true indigo will stick instead of black. I haven’t decided.
I haven’t decided the order in which we all die. Or if we die at all.
It may not even be up to me.
Even if the play is the same, the actors might forget their lines and torch the script with actual fire.
Truth be told, I’m counting on them to do just that.
Because all their fucking lives depend on it.
