Thursday 10/06/2011 01:07:00 AM

the siren whispers to her. its lips moving. though the sound isn't there. she sees the words tumbling from its mouth. Bowling balls and shotgun shells. A long series of silent massacres. Like being young or growing old.

Her pencils betray her. She's drawn all that she is able to see. And though she knows there is more, she is tired of searching.

Skin is a treason. That gives away the secrets of these bones. A careless shrug of sex discards the skeleton. Leaves us smothered under piles of the empty flesh that remains.

Touch is a thief. That steals the joy of anticipation. Leaves us feral with wanting to consume what can never fill us.

Time is the tender edge of a very sharp blade. We stroke it. Looking for blood. Never realizing how close we are to getting what we want. The monster isn't ugly. It's beautiful and helpless. Like being young and growing old.

Soiled glass and trembling wood. Quaking rain and raging wind. The manic whisper of your skin as she tries you on for the first time. And you fit.

Forget the war. Forget the cause. It's within those small battles that life is lived.

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