Why Should I Name it?
Why Should I name it?
I walked into the dim lighted room. The blood red cocktail hugged my curves. Giving the impression of an older appearance. I heard the pompous rich men talk about their mistresses to mask their failing businesses. The small taps my heels made against the expensive marble reminded me of me reasons of being here.
Stop, the chilly words whisked across my senses.
I always see him, when he’s a ‘him’. He takes on another face every night. Sometimes I am that face. Reminding me of the proud darkness I hold. Our eyes link. He drinks my gaze, making chills run down my spine. As he gets closer I see he takes on a strangers face. We never touch, at least not here.
He's wearing a jet black suit to match his pitch black eyes. We dance, not touching. The crowd turns its attention to us. They give us strange looks. We don't care in the least.
Panic attack hit. I feel the pain rake through my body giving me chilling reminder that I am real. I look up to the crowd wondering why no one seeks to help me. They have no faces, not that I complain, but their voices are what put fear into my body. They get louder, and more pronounced until everything becomes one. Sound become nothing, light brings the true darkness, and I see myself in his pitch black eyes.
We needn't no sound. I know where it ends. When this first occurred he was a small dot, and became bigger over time. Now he is towering over me tearing apart my soul with each second. I see his hand race, and almost break our silent rule of no touching. I wait for the contact, and he slashes through me in a clean cut. The black blood oozes with another reminder that I am, in fact, human.
I slip into a new darkness.
Beep, Beep, Beep
My simple alarm goes. No sweat, or fresh tears. I am used to these new 'dreams' or whatever you would like to call it. Didn't I tell you that I always break free? I came to a conclusion to the world I resign in.
We are of the Heavenly torture, and the pure Hell mixed into one being called a human to make this world we call a 'home'. The imperfect balance. How does imperfectness have a balance; that's just it, it will never be equal. Those types of things don't truly exist. We are the excess of Heaven and Hell. You don't believe in those things, you say? Well we are the fear in joy of everything. I was still too tired to join our primitive society, and slipped under my icy blankets.
I let the pitch black take me under its hold. I never touch, never speak, never hear but see....So why in the hell should I name it?