Just words

It stings, does it not? They trickle into your conscious. Then, like hot oil they burn slowly through the layers of defence, get under your skin and linger. Fester. You can claw at them, but once said they dig deeper and deeper until they discover the softest and most vulnerable spot.

And they are just words.

I watch you now, as the edge of my voice breaks you. It feels good to be able to knock the air out of your lungs just by using my vocal cords. You may think it is not taking any effort on my part, that I like doing this. But it is as painful for me as it is for you. Yet, there is satisfaction as I watch the impact of my words reach your eyes. Flickering uncertainty.

If I wanted, I could turn a single syllable into a weapon, a sigh into an insult, my lips into hatred. I chose this one sentence with care. The words I knew would injure you most, make your life falter. See, I know how to get you, where to get you, when to get you. I bet you wish you had not let me this far in.

You stand there, silent, as if I have deprived you of air, placed you in a vacuum. Your arms cling motionless along the sides of your body, the wine bottles sit in front of you on the mat like abandoned children, and the one lace you had time to undo before I demolished your world looks like a dead vine that has lost all its leaves.

But they are just words.

I love you. 

The Saint Annabelle

Alcohol (preferably rum, bourbon, whiskey or gin)

3 oz impudence

3 oz sarcasm

3 oz hussy

1 ½ oz incorrigibleness

1 ½ oz trouble and troublemaker

1 ½ oz sweetness

½ oz manipulation

½ oz madness

½ oz inappropriate flirtation

3 inch piece wit

1 inch piece total disregard for authority

Stick of fresh shamelessness for garnish

No modesty

Served straight up in anything that can hold it.

Sapphire Romance

We drink to that,

Clinking glasses in intoxicated agreement.

We drink to anything,

To get a little drunker,

To get to the bottom before the ice melts.

We stand too close,

Sealing it with another sip.

We don’t care,

Whispering sapphire secrets,
Showing off our gin romance to all.

Be careful you say,

Just as I sink with the last drop.

Lullaby of Tuesday mornings

It is beshert.

I knew the moment your fingers traced the outline of my life.

We played with shadows of candlelight.

And your eyes remained on me.

We are the same you said.

I guess we are.
Only, all I want are no longer shadows.
And you don't see me.

So I pretend it's not real and dilute your ghost with alcohol.

We are destined.

But we forever blow out candles,

To a lullaby of Tuesday mornings. 

Lips

Here I am, Saturday night, sober (still/again - sigh), listening to the Cure, massive candles (black and purple) the only source of light apart from this screen - which is turned down low, writing a long paragraph about lips. Not like lips for kissing but for words. And I suppose a little bit for kissing too.

I do look at lips when people speak. I don't like George Clooney's mouth for instance. He's got thin lips. But I don't like full lips either and there's nothing more disgusting than wet lips. But of course our mouths say so much about us and our feelings.

I don't like my lips. They're uneven. Makes it hard to use lipstick. Gloss is fine, but when you use lipstick you need good definition. Wearing that plum colored lipstick to the Halloween Ball in 2010 was quite freaky actually, but the show had to go on.

I only have one picture in my apartment with people in it - me and, of course - who else? I love that picture of us. It's in front of me on my desk. You can only see the more even side of my mouth and my eyebrows look amazing. As does he, and his mouth and his cupid's bow. Perfect lips. "Kiss me kiss me kiss me" - the Cure.

It's interesting how intimate lips are even though they are on the outside and on constant display for the world to see.

But I wonder what else I can write about M's lips and if B would really be so fascinated by her mouth - or is it just me? This is where writing becomes tricky - just because I all of sudden think this is a great way to bring out her character doesn't mean it works on the page. Time well tell. As will my critics.

I need my lips to meet with some burning alcohol - thank fuck I'll be having at least one cocktail tomorrow. I will have to make sure it's the most potent one on the menu.

Harlem Nocturne

The flash of skin through the zip of a dress

A shoe falling to the floor

Luxurious stockings sliding down a thigh, a calf, toes

Noir

I only strip on Thursdays

Fin

So sweet the scent of dejection.
Like honey mixed with caramel.
And white lilies at the funeral.
To not dream to not hope to die.
End what never began.

It's cinematic.
Fin