ivorynightcloth

what is this
that i have here?
a tiny jar of blue-grey seeds all mixed together with bits of broken flower petals that could make me cry if i think too hard about them. i want to pour the entire contents into my body and appear on the outside what they mean to me.
that pretty pretty liquid. when will we meet again?
my claws are sharp when i am dreaming, and i wake up afraid, because i know i should not be here.
i'll press my lips against the folds of sheets and age old cloth that i tangle myself into whenever i can and whisper
please please listen to me
and hope for sweet-tasting dreams to come.

today. i do not feel so well. my eyes are twitching in sync with my body, and nothing around me is staying still for very long. a garden spider has decided to room with me during these final days that i will live in this manner.
childlike and afraid, spending every second curled up on that dirty mattress.
i was going to beg my dad to kill him, but i began to realize that he is here so that i am not alone. even if the movement of his legs makes me shiver and retch.

i am falling back into old habits, and taste salt water too often when i am in the act of. pretending that it is the ocean that i am tasting, i can almost smile to myself, if i close my eyes and forget all that is around me.

if i were born a decade before that year 1988, i would have touched that mans hand in such a way that we would both have realized that all would be alright, soon.
he bought me a toy ukelele for my birthday, that i never knew about because a stranger had taken it as their own before i ever had the chance to see him as a glassy-eyed, crumpled 21 year old.
i told them that i was never going to live to be this age. i realize, now, that i said those things, possibly, because i was afraid of what i'd do when i got there. here.
smoking and married and dead at 12 years old. all in a manner of speaking, of course.

i've been distracting myself with age-scented books and glasses of gin at nighttime before i fall into bed. it's been working just fine, except when i wake up the following morning to the sun that makes my skin ache so horribly.

another record of ashley words. ashley thoughts. that i will rediscover eons from now and sigh and shrug my shoulders and say "oh that ashley girl really gets me"
and maybe no one will know that i'm talking about myself.

i've been longing for the chance to be in a tiny group of people, while drinking the poisonious sort of liquid that will cause them not to think that i'm so strange for borrowing one of their phones to give myself a call, not pick up, and leave a long and winded sounding message that will make me sick the morning after.

i've let my hair grow long and wild, and i can only tie it up into a knot to keep it out of my face when they need me to see the most. even if i don't want to see so clearly, it is what i'm living for, and i don't really have a choice.
i did not choose this. but i am here. and it is alright.

   In a dusty photograph, I waved blindly to who could be on the other side. A capsule was clenched between my yellow teeth, replacing every cigarette that had ever been mine. The death of me. Calm and clean. Like starving bones beneath blue, thinning skin. I'd had died right then, in the photograph of me, but I held my breath throughout the bitter almond taste of my rose-scented insanity.
   I don't remember what came next after that moment that had slowly passed. But I keep that deep sleep, silver and shimmering, in a capsule hidden deep between the tangled, knotted locks of my hair.
   They still ask of me, when they see my distorted features, and question whether or not I am really there.
   I have become transparent in all this fading and curling-edged time. Why, I hardly know, but I've never questioned too many things.
   I've gone. I'm still here. Holding what was me by the edges of my strange looking fingertips.
   "Save me" I whisper to who might also not be there, "and please remove this thing that will destroy me from out of my shadow-hair."