the haematoma in your heart: chantale

[Nykeln]

the poison on your lips; Threads of life are meagre things, thin and fine, like silver and gold. Such spindly little things that hold you together, fibrous sinews, china white bone, thick marrow that binds it all. It is easy to dissect the core, one part at a time. Moon white bones, splintering beneath cracked rock, scarlet nectar a painting worth a million sunsets. All these little things collect in my mind, stored in the bank, the vault. I slide out the endless drawers, sort out memories like old faded tomes. A life there, how succulent, how sweet. That man that, his hellion face, his dark eyes. There were few locked away, under deadbolts and cryptic codes. Those memories I refused to acknowledge, those memories were the ones that caused the peachy flesh organ in my chest to cease in it's beating. Oh, it beat, it beat a great lively crescendo. But it did not truly beat. It takes few things to cause distress, but those things did, and they moulded me in some sick and twisted way. My idling does not go unnoticed, my memory hunting, unchecked. Ghostly, phantom-like she crosses the threshold of the viridian earth and in it, warps the green, the reds and creams. Her scent is clear, decaying rot that fills me with a flutter, fills me with an all consuming must, a mission. I whicker, low, deep, almost masculine in it's tone. The blood dry upon my lips, caking my throat with it's bittersweet tang. 'Chantale.' I whisper, haunted, needing. Inked ears twist, bending low, hearing all the echoes of the fading heartbeats, my own and the dying one before my eyes, it's last vain attempt forgotten as Chantale's carnivorous teeth vanquish the organ in moments. I watch, oblivion eyes, rapt, hypnotised by the gore, the fascination tugs at the dim strings of my heart, tugging gently, here and there. I feel something, right there. I wouldn't know where to place it, a mixture of pride, a mixture of desire. It is all sinfully delicious, all sins, nonetheless. I suppose finding those sought after keys in life, never went to the saintly and just. 'More... what more do you want... do you need?' I ask, I plead, there is a thin line, just so, like invisible chalk washed away by torrents of rain. I've overstepped it now, far too long gone. I'm across the tarmac of the playground, young eyes wet with rain and glossy with desire. I look up at the sky, expecting angels, but what has befallen me? the glorious bowels have hell have opened up and spat me up the ghoulish Chantale. And I cannot help but feel the delight, pinprick every inch of my skin. 'There must be more.'I store forward, closer, nearing her ice cold form. Extending my dark muzzle and inhaling her. Warmth against the cold grain. Life against death. they always did say opposites attracted one another, I suppose that is the same. Yin and yang, black and white. Life and Death. the haematoma in your heart;