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Literature Text
Sleeping Beauty
I can see him coming even through my closed eyelids.
He gets closer and closer to the bed, panting like an animal from the hundred steps, and I can smell the sweat and dirt come off him in waves that make my nostrils flare. But I stay perfectly still, keep my eyes sealed shut. He comes to me, and his dirty fingers explore me, spreading his filth all over my clean body. How can he?
He doesn't notice at all where my hand rests.
Over me he breathes hard and pulses, and I hate him for it.
The first was to supposed to be the perfect one, the pure. I wanted him to be so... perfect. But he wasn't. He scratched my face with his dirty, unshaven cheeks, and bruised my skin with rough fingers. He ruined my dream. What could I do but wait for another?
Finally he gets off me, let's me breathe again. He puts my heels together, and smoothes out my dress; they all do that, as if they think it makes a difference. Then, as if to seal the deal, he goes to kiss me, and I can smell his foul breath, and feel his unceremoniously opened eyes.
My fingers tighten on the handle of the axe under my thigh.
He presses his dry, tasteless lips to mine, expecting me to arise and thank him, expecting me to be his forever. I can take no more of this.
I bring the axe down on him, my practised hand hitting hard and just. His yells and blood splatter my dress and face, but I don't mind anymore. He finally stops screaming and only the blood remains. He falls to the ground in a loud thud. I smile shakily, tucking the axe back under me, tucking myself back into bed. He'll have long turned to dust by the time the next one comes along.
I don't even have to open my eyes anymore.
I can see him coming even through my closed eyelids.
He gets closer and closer to the bed, panting like an animal from the hundred steps, and I can smell the sweat and dirt come off him in waves that make my nostrils flare. But I stay perfectly still, keep my eyes sealed shut. He comes to me, and his dirty fingers explore me, spreading his filth all over my clean body. How can he?
He doesn't notice at all where my hand rests.
Over me he breathes hard and pulses, and I hate him for it.
The first was to supposed to be the perfect one, the pure. I wanted him to be so... perfect. But he wasn't. He scratched my face with his dirty, unshaven cheeks, and bruised my skin with rough fingers. He ruined my dream. What could I do but wait for another?
Finally he gets off me, let's me breathe again. He puts my heels together, and smoothes out my dress; they all do that, as if they think it makes a difference. Then, as if to seal the deal, he goes to kiss me, and I can smell his foul breath, and feel his unceremoniously opened eyes.
My fingers tighten on the handle of the axe under my thigh.
He presses his dry, tasteless lips to mine, expecting me to arise and thank him, expecting me to be his forever. I can take no more of this.
I bring the axe down on him, my practised hand hitting hard and just. His yells and blood splatter my dress and face, but I don't mind anymore. He finally stops screaming and only the blood remains. He falls to the ground in a loud thud. I smile shakily, tucking the axe back under me, tucking myself back into bed. He'll have long turned to dust by the time the next one comes along.
I don't even have to open my eyes anymore.
Literature
Moth
My dear, I was never your butterfly,
I was simply a moth that wished she was beautiful...
Literature
Reshape and Revision
There is an ocean trapped inside my body
Swirling and cold and dangerous
I can feel the tides changing,
Reshaping itself and
Reshaping me.
My spine is curved and yielding
Under its beguiling pressure.
My ribcage grows old;
Corrodes.
The carcass of my heart
Still quivering:
The scavengers won't let it rest.
My blood runs thin and salty,
My brain sloshes in my skull,
My lungs fill up with water,
And I wish for gills.
I know if I
Try
To hold back the tide
It will destroy me.
But what I fear more
Is what happens if
I let it
Free.
Literature
Sleep
I've been drunk
on half sleep
for four days now,
I know the underbelly
of morning,
the way five o'clock
smells.
I've been painting insomniac
birds on the ceiling,
perpetually in flight,
their eyes half shut
with no chance
of change.
I thought I saw you
through the moon roof
on Thursday night,
when I drove
to the water
to watch the geese sleep,
the ships lay down
on dry dock,
the train
hush up the engine.
Last night I tried to hold
to your sheets,
your shirts,
but the bed
turned into pin-pricks,
my eyes
wide flashlights
until dawn.
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I have a thing for fairy tales, but I find the sugar coated versions kids are fed these days are just pitiful. When you think about it, Sleeping Beauty is a horrible, horrible story. I like that she wins, though.
© 2002 - 2024 ladygekko
Comments18
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This is so interesting. I love twist-how she likes sleeping and waits for 'perfect one.'