#modernromanticsnet

I want tattoos because they're permanent.  I want a piece of that forever: an etching blushed against my skin, a story in ink written on living canvas, saying- I exist. I exist.  I exist.

my hands are cold they are now, like always ice tacked onto skin: glacier palms; stalactite fingers, waving to you like a warning-sign iceberg, saying, I’m not made for human touch. my icicle knees press against a soft snow-bank chest as I curl up under covers, trying to remember the last time I was warm: in the womb. I knew then that I would never feel alive without feeding off someone else. I know this now. will you touch me, lover? warm me? you have rough hands, like a sculptor’s: you can turn ice into swans, make some cold art out of me. chisel out the rough edges until I’m something you would want. I don’t mind being beautiful or carved. just promise me, later that you’ll let the light in, put me in the sun— let me melt; leave the window open, i’ll evaporate— I’ve never wanted anything but to be nothing at all. 

death is a performance art and art, when done well always has an audience hands are involved: cold hands that fall limp like lilies in their most decadent decay around the eyes: tears to brighten them the essence of belladonna adorning the wrists: scars in multicolour, criss-crossed like ribbons faded and new, a woven bracelet which matches the face: a-flush from crying, pale with death and the most natural make up. for the despairing girl ( it is always a girl ) the dress must be white and men must be present to take her picture as she jumps; to paint her portrait as she drowns; are you satisfied? the crowd roars. are you entertained? the people scream. there’s no encore. the curtains close and—

i want all the beautiful things to make me their own i want sweetness and chocolate syrup; covering myself in caramel in hopes of osmosis