Sta.sh
of the sky...
by ~sweet-sangriathere is a kind of rancor on her bed this morning, driven by the tortoiseshell sky that divides the dull phrases from the imploding laments, so that her mourning would seem articulate rather than vomit-like, splattering on the floor. she cogitates, hesitates—there are seasons in her library of chronicles, mostly bleak. ruminating the ugly is inevitable. the dream of derision already weighed her down.
but there is no use of being indignant, much like her austere eyes: neither right nor wrong. passion, too, is futile, it will take her where he persists in an indifferent vein. so excuse her, however she be, nothing beautiful will come out of it. the disintegration of sentiments causes only perennial desolation, wasteland after wasteland of fragmentary sighs not even the stillness is able to hear. though if she dares to admit, she hopes nobody is listening. noises breathe too heavily; remarks get in the way, even in between your lashes, agitating whatever point of view you might be birthing. the anatomy of her sentences paces ungainly in plain sight. altogether inane!—honest, but inane nonetheless.
so she stops segregating what dives into her inertial head. she is aware that everything will ultimately saturate the floor, or that sofa; all that grief as wet, pungent sickness. not the kind of liquid he would expect from her orifice, as it was usually just tears and moistening aperture, ready to be fingered stupid.
the sky now turns into a drab color of sand with unadorned clouds sweeping thin beneath an even more distant mauve. what becomes of her now? oh, you know, nothing imposing. a repetitive number at a certain hour. a ghosts when he showers. an intimate hum he would be familiar with, only to realize it sounds nothing like her, since it is a mere creaking of a chair. a silly cat.
if only he knows, come what may, she will always be his answer. neither right nor wrong.
i am so tired of everything. i just want something else. something new. (i want ecstatic stuff too)
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sangrmahlia.tumblr.com
...some orgasmic stuff won't hurt either.
thinking is tiresome.