Pixie Dust

By Icarus130

I.
China dolls and pixie dust, paper souls, longing and lust, these are the things that my inner child are made of. Lost in the land between closets and bedrooms, wading through the eternal springtime, seeds planted in my eye, feeding and growing off my tears, blooming into bright red roses, spreading across my face and gently filling my mouth with vines and thorns until I begin to choke on the sweet aroma of hope. So I pray to the gods of old, Gaia, Eros and Athena, even in my darkest moment to Apollo, begging for relief. But my pleas fall upon deaf ears and so instead I look to the skies for respite. The merciful angels, with there lily white wings, glowing halo’s and blindingly pure hearts, look down upon me with sorrow and tell me that they would adore me if they knew how. But I am tainted and forbidden and they do not dare deceive their master, a plastic god of leaden power, so I am banished from the light and forced walk through this darkness alone, with only my instincts to guide me. I follow the road signs, follow the dark, curving path diligently as it leads me out of the exalted beauty of heaven and far back down into the bowels of hopelessness and sin called hell, finally leaving me cold, naked, scarred and bleeding, back where I first started.
In my clouded oblivion, I crawl my way to your doorstep and ring your bell. You peep through the curtains and turn out the lights, not knowing me as I’ve become. I am just another curbside prophet to you, high upon my soapbox, spitting truth and lies in a dead language called obsession. So I sing to you through the night, words of love and passion and fornication and terror and God only knows what else melting into a single scream as the dawn breaks. I climb your tree and eat the leaves, ignoring the apples, and all the while I’m plucking the roses that have begun to entwine themselves in my hair and throwing them at your bedroom window. After three weeks on your doorstep you remember my words, open your citadel, and take me in your arms. As I cling to your bosom you kiss the top of my head, covered with flesh colored thorns, and plunge the needle into my veins. The world begins to fade to black and the last thing I see is your smile, so much more sinister than I remember. From a hole in the back of your throat and I can see the tentacles pushing through, and the last thing I hear is your maniacal laughter.
Later you wake me for my cleansing. I am beaten and held in seclusion, Cut slowly into ribbons by your razor sharp nails and force fed your righteousness. you injected me with vile substances called guilt and remorse and watch as my skin turns pale and fear racks my very soul. You say that you know my addiction and hold the cure, but you fear both so much more than you could ever love me, so you deny me absolution. I continue to fall as before, but this time into the darkest depths of your swollen belly, where you taste my skin and smell my dreams. You relish the taste and yearn for more. So come to me in this darkest hour, petty, evil, loveless whore, and lower yourself onto me, teasing me with your cold flesh, the flesh I need to feel myself wrapped in. Grasp the bedposts and scream any name but mine as I cling to your hair, dying a little with each magnificent thrust and slowly losing my mind and myself inside of you.


II.
I awake days later to find that I am no longer dead, nor remotely alive. Gemini stars are falling around us while everything corrosive and addictive sparkles in blinding neon lights. Vegas has become the new heaven while nature burns and seasons come to an end. I look upon all of this with disgust and lay naked and hard in the winter snow as protest for your abominable actions. Why did it come to this? Don’t you remember the signs? The Indian once cried at every bus stop. He warned us of all this. But we refused to listen and now the tribal drums begin their throbbing, pulsing, final beat, pushing rational thought away. The war paint is on their faces and the end must be coming. They are counting coup as I sleep, touching me to make sure that I am not another spirit, and then waiting to slaughter me at first light. You see all of this but cannot connect, you refuse to see things through my eyes because you see me as broken and flawed.
But you must realize that what you see is the passage way to my soul, not simply a hole in my head, meant to be bricked up and forgotten. No matter what common sense may tell you, dreams do escape through there, pathetic and somewhat disturbing though they may be. It is my peep hole, almost equal to your eyes, or so I would like to believe. Only in my case all of the good that I observe through it crashes far short of its’ goal, and I am doomed to repeat mistakes I never really made. Wreckage falls around the edges of my good intentions, my words blow away and my thoughts are stolen by the wind. I am solo in a triplet world, desperately trying to hide my halo in this evil city. I am alone in a place where only the insane or desperately lonely dare to tread. You send me a new addiction now, postcards and strollers for me to push, raw skins and raw words for me to feed off, until I crave the flesh that covers your bones. I am addicted to your tongue, forked and poisonous, slithering in my mouth. I am addicted to your sweat, killing my blood red murder roses and drugging me into submission.
Bubbles of words rise up now, velvet kisses from fairies are brushing my cheek as I sleep. But a third of them are evil, unstable little vixens at best. So please tip toe quietly by lest you wake them from their fragile slumber. They have the power to make me real, to make me free of you, but they also posses the knowledge to make me burn, to make me cower in fear of everyone, not just you.
If all of this leads you to believe that I am insane then so be it. And if it is your will then I shall be sent far away to have these things removed from my soul. I’m not really all that worried though, hallucinogens in rehab will suit me so much better than such overrated things like fresh air and freedom. So trap me in this lab, me in these chains, you in your little white lab coat, whisper a few lies, fill me with a thousand needles and a million different poisons, take your notes and nod and look superior as my veins grow and bulge and explode. Then stake me to the wall with smiles of glee and maniacal laughter because I’m now to fucked up to stand. Tame me, make me limp, teach me to grovel at the sound of your voice. Then slowly rebuild me to live within all of your failed dreams. But remember, T.S. Elliot and quantum physics are useless on the stupid. Waves of Barney and the Teletubbies and Jerry springer may bring you better results instead. Burdens will fall away from my tired shoulders for the moment but vapors of The Cat in The Hat and of finding a sunny day with the count will begin to fade when the contradictions become the facts. So please explain this experiment to me one last time. Pedal through all of your charts and graphs and them prove to me why trampling me is so much better for both of us than simply asking me to move. Then I will applaud you as tears fill your eyes and you begin to cry at the sound of your own moving speech. And I will cry to as you tear out your hair and you throw yourself to the ground , screaming over and over about the madness of it all.. You are shallow and more than just a little pathetic but porcelain tears are an impressive prop, transient though they may be. Your Oscar is on the way, Leo, and I am finally being sent home to roost. It’s strange though, I think that in time I will look back and begin to miss this cage…

III.
Please forgive me for taking so long to reach any sort of point, my musings tend to take me where only fools, demons and addicts dare tread. I believe that all of this stems from my desire to eat forbidden fruits, my hang-ups about you thinking me tiresome, my ultimatums to myself concerning myself and my obsession with mirrors that will not show me my own reflection. I am a vampire in my own mind, doomed to walk this world alone, ashamed of my power and disgusted by what lengths I will go to to feed off your soul. So I sulk in the night and try not to think about you. But I realize that you are what matters, you are the sane parts of me, you are the light I reach for each night when the sun settles into it’s slumber. I write these words, sing this song, change my flag of peace for a gun and drain the tainted blood from my veins into this jewel laden goblet, all to please you. And I hate you for it.
Of course all of these things seem trivial to you but believe it or not there are days when these things drag me too close to the edge of what little sanity I have left, dragging out feelings better left dormant. Granted I can’t seem to feel much tangled in this net. Wait. A sacred net you say? Oh. OK. I guess I’ll tumble down and see where this takes me…. A circus. High wires. Show time. I smile as the implications of this moment dawn on me. Dreams like these are fun to tread on. Fun to bleed on. It’s fun to cut the ties that bind when you’re already floating high above the big top. Granite lay below and I become curious. Curious about letting go, falling down, bowing to a surface barely harder than my head. A sensation of feeling all those expectant eyes upon me, cameras flashing, children laughing and screaming and applauding as the clowns dance around my remains, squirting me with their fake flowers and water bottles, honking their noses and shoving my broken remains into their VW beetle. But I resist these temptations for I have too many words and too many miles yet ahead of me. So onward and upward I go...

IV.
As I write all of these things, I block out and ignore the outside world. The Joy that I once took in narcotic hazes and sadomasochistic rituals have dulled into another tiresome addiction that I must quell until I can find something new to please me. And now, in what I believed to be my greatest moment of clarity, schizophrenic dreams are making themselves known once again. Or maybe they never left. Maybe I am just a warped dream, trapped in the subconscious of the real me. Maybe I am the evil in the hearts of all I touch. Maybe I am only alive because I have learned to feed off of your ambivalence towards my every breath and sigh and truth and lie. Maybe, maybe, maybe…… And in this recurring sickness I find myself dreaming of you again. Only this time I can remember. The joy, the laughter, the sex. A name. Ashley. I remember you now. The you that was there when I was still me. I am remembering of the pain you inflicted, remembering how your cruelest smile seemed to coincide with my most piercing screams. I remember it was you that drew the curtains and faded the lights in my eyes. I begin thrashing, sweating, clawing my bed sheets, screaming into the hot, rancid air of my bedroom, “ WHERE IS YOUR GOLDEN ROAD? WHERE IS YOUR PUREST DOVE? WHERE ARE ALL OF YOUR PROMISES NOW, EVIL LITTLE GIRL?” And with your sharp words, piercing eyes and caustic laughter you begin to walk towards me, brandishing a heart shaped dagger, the one engraved with the words “True love”. I feel the metal pierce my skin and I awake with a start. As the sleep clears from my eyes, I see that day has arrived. My sheets have become stained with semen and sweat and wine and the smell of your perfume. I can see the curve outlines of your body, holes from the dagger and chains hanging from my bedposts. Your lovely Chernobyl kisses have stained my cheek. What happened to you? What happened to me? What the hell have I been writing about anyway?

V.
They tell me that I have been somewhere far away, a place that I should never speak of. But vague thoughts and veiled hints are plaguing my mind and demons from the past are running unchecked through my subconscious. I begin to fight these things, these skeletons from the closet let loose, but I am too weak and tired, so I embrace it all, feeding and growing and gaining momentum until all those who cross my path cower in fear. I realize that I shouldn’t embrace the darkness that lives inside me, the darkness that you injected into a pure soul, but dissent seems to be the in thing this decade. Prophecies foretold it long ago, but who reads the writing on the wall if it isn’t being covered by CNN, ripped from the headlines by Law and Order or vilified and sneered upon by Bill O’Reily?
So shelter me in these end times, I’m afraid of what I see around me. Whisper Love and devotion in my ear, Sweep away all these dirty little secrets with a wink and a giggle, kiss me and then be on your way. Bright little stars and heavenly daydreams will fill my eyes for the moment, but once you are out of sight I will once again be riddled by fear and doubt. Dark winds will tear at me and throw me about, separating me from my senses and redefining how I see you.
I tell you these things and you nod but make no reply. This isn’t the first time that daybreak has found me on your couch, begging absolution from a creator with no heart. You stare out the window at the dying winter landscape, too disgusted to meet my stare. I understand that you are perplexed and more than a little repulsed of what I’ve become but please speak soon. I am restless and nervous and you must realize by now that I am madly in love with the thought of being completely or not at all in love with someone like or not at all like you. I hate you and I love you and I feel everything in between for you and I am desperate for you to return an emotion, any emotion, even if it means that all of this must finally come to an end. It was you that gave me my addiction and let me feed off of you. You were the one that gave me strength, the one that put her open vein to my lips and begged me to drink, NO, dared me to. It was you, hovering above my bed that night, promising to save me. You made me part of you and you gave it willingly. Remember though, compromise is not an option, it is merely a delay that will slowly tear me apart with the lingering smell of anticipation. So either embrace me or put me out of my misery.
Writing this tale and all the others is slowly driving me insane. Like this one, all the others are about love and betrayal, sex and passion and hate. Promises kept and broken, pictures that have been burned and memories that have begun to fade with time. I write them and cry over the loss of them. I can think of no other reason for this so I attempt to blame it all on you. I try to tarnish your pristine name and I cut myself repeatedly in protest of your very existence. We both know that you are really not to blame though, I am simply jealous of you. You so beautiful, you so real, you so suitable for mass consumption. There is nothing I can do now that you haven’t already done and I guess that I can hardly expect you to apologize for forgetting that I exist.
They say that I need a new hobby, something to help me forget you and all of the shallow promises that I’ve surrounded myself with. I turn now instead to obsession. I begin to search for my next great love my , my next great addiction, my next great pain: Allison. She comes to me in my dreams of late, tempting me more than you ever could, more because she is pure, more because she is pristine, whole hearted and truly in love with me. The smell of our sex fills my nostrils when I wake and I wander night and day, sweating, seething, almost dead, screaming her name into the empty streets till I’ve lost my voice and all sense of reality. I crawl back to the rancid flat that I call home and I write our names on a million paper hearts. I wait till noon and then throw them off the tallest building. They flutter to the ground and I imagine everyone below smiling, content in the knowledge that somewhere two people are so madly in love. I set up a shrine for her in my underwear drawer and masturbate to her picture. I will burn a thousand candles and peel off layers of my skin, praying that she will be sent to me. And all of this because I’ve been told that I love her enough to do anything to be near her. Of course In all of my dreams and fantasies and coke riddled hazes, nobody has ever had the heart to tell me that she doesn’t exist. She is all just the result of a mind that’s trapped in a body that’s too afraid to leave the house and meet real human beings. At least that’s what they’re telling me. Or not telling me. Whatever.

VI.
All of these new thoughts are alien and cold and confusing and I begin to realize after I think them and believe them that these desires are not my own. Did you forget to close the floodgates to my mind to everything not mine? Did you mean to leave unraveled endings and unspoken words hanging in the air? Look into your soul for a moment and tell me what you see; Ragged dreams, depression, tears and broken promises feeding off your black heart? Or divine inspiration, enough to share with me. Love waiting in the wings to have its chance on stage. And pure things to strengthen you and confidence enough to believe that you can survive anything. Entertain me with your answer. Tell me tales filled with all of the things you think that I would like to hear. Tell me of your dreams and aspirations and your hopes of being a better person. And I will swallow your lies whole, wanting to believe that you are the angel that you promised, needing to believe that I gave my soul for something that was true. I am so afraid of what I see when I look into your eyes, black pits echoing with pain and suffering, not your pain, not your blood dripping, not your blood red roses wilting in the winter cold. Mine.
I firmly believe that lucidity of this type or of any other is dangerous. Speaking long held secrets and wishes will drain you of all that makes you unique. Then boredom sets in and all that is left is silence and discomfort. Of course occasional glimpses of brilliance will still come along, unsung ballads popping in and out, wicked temptations of the flesh haunting you as you lay in bed, but they are all fleeting at best. So yourself a favor and remain satisfied with dreams held in abeyance. Pursue instead what others leave behind, steal the things that they no longer truly want and feed off of them, leave me in peace for this one night, this one full moon. Let me sleep. Let me breathe air that isn’t rancid, tainted by the scent of our love and hate and all of the sins that you have had me commit, all the while giggling as I condemn myself to hell.
And then when morning finally comes, all these weeks later, when the clouds clear and the sun beats down upon my pale and scarred body, do what you have always intended. Drive you dagger into my now blackened heart and smile as my blood runs out of me and over your long, cruel hands. Kiss me as my last breathe draws near and whisper those words into my ear. Confirm what I have known from the beginning. That this was all for nothing. That you made me into this monster so you could be amused, so you could feed on another innocent. Because that is what I was before you came to me, made love to me and marked me as your play thing. I was innocent. and I will cry it out over and over as your last kiss drags me slowly to hell.

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Pixie Dust

Created: Jul 20, 2010

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