Vincent

Metallic sunshine. Vogue paintings slipping sideways down the doorframe, crooked birdcages, life by the side of the bed. She's running down the sidewalk, red hair running down her hips and bleeding over her face, brilliant and teeming with more life than is accepted in my world. Sunlight pours through the hole in his stomach, blinding me and throwing the sparkles embedded in my cheeks back at him to illuminate the tears sliding down his face. I'm reflected in the tears, blonde hair falling in blonde and blonder shards that frame my face. She lays on the grass, a red river running from each corner of her perfect lips. I kneel, clutching my knees, and letting my hair drip and spread in the water. Their hands run down my spine and I grimace, face still emerged in the warm water. I hear them whisper I can't lose you, you're life and freedom and love and beauty so don't leave our world for theirs and I feel my heart clench and re-clench with a terror I can barely feel through the numbing of the sun as it warms my back. My knees are covered, so it's not provocative, right? If I veil my shoulders with some type of black material, does it mean that I'm safe? That I won't be harmed or loved; to stay here in this middle ground that I adore with a fervor I can barely contain, except on the rare occasion that I don't sleep and instead walk with secrets pouring from my lips? I want to scream, I could scream, I would love to let something (anyeverything) run in stream from my nose which I can never clog, that's always open for it. All you have to do is whisper in my ear, kiss the back of my neck, let your hands slide over my hips while I'm pressed to you from the back. All I have to do... all I HAVE to do it wait. All I can do is pull my legs to my chest and bite my knee caps so hard that I draw a bite mark of blood to run down the shins and pretend that I don't care. I care. I care. I care.