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Array
(
[sid] => 145318
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => perfectly.broken.
[time] => 2008-09-22 01:27:45
[hometext] => A small sorta prose... Love always has its odd little addictions...
[bodytext] => She was made of melted candy and thorns. Her hair, a whirlwind of violence and loneliness, iron black, like her obsidian heart. She picked the ones that never said no, because she enjoyed the infinite possibilities. The sun withered when she smiled. A rare occurrence, every half century she’d return and light up the way. She wove dreams into your skin like the blade you cherished in those dead hours, mouth wide open and accepting of the misery she fed you. Her hands were a slow blur of silk and daggers, claws shredding your soul while she whispered her empty I love yous. You convinced your petty esteem that there was truth in the messages she burned into your screaming flesh, cigarettes wheezing on the floor around you, a plume of smoke in your ruined face as you thanked her for each brand. She crushes your pathetic wind-pipe because you begged her to, because deep down you know she’d do it regardless. She squashes your every hope because you’ve wasted your life thus far. You weep between her thighs, and she pets you like the broken puppy you are, slowly guiding you to her bounteous well. You sip and choke as she shoves you, takes your breath away, and beats you with a smile. You relish your marks the next morning with a strangled laugh wrapped in a sob. There is that tiny speck of emptiness you expect every day, that makes you crawl back to her. She welcomes you with a kick in the ribs and a leather strap around your neck. You explode with joy in your silence, your bleeding knees. You don’t care. Nothing matters, but her adoring hand destroying you. [comments] => 6 [counter] => 334 [topic] => 13 [informant] => FleurdeSang [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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